


Fraud

by emmish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Assisted Masturbation, Banter, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Champagne, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cumbria, Deception, Deductions, Devious Sherlock, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Grinding, Holding Hands, Holiday, Hotels, Humor, I Like Your Hair, Inexperienced Sherlock, It's For a Case, John is a Saint, Johnlock Domestic, Kissing, Let's fall in love, Lie Detector, M/M, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polygraph Machine, Possessive Moriarty, Post-Relationship, Pre-Relationship, Premature Ejaculation, Romance, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Likes Cake, Snow, Subterfuge, Sulking Sherlock, Thunderstorms, Tiff, Top!lock, Virgin Sherlock, murder case, threat, top!John, treehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 28,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmish/pseuds/emmish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tests John.<br/>Pre- and Post-relationship, explicit M/M, some violence, language.<br/>*JohnLock*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fraud

"John! JOHN!"

The doctor with ash-brown hair twitched faintly, finding himself on the dim periphery of dream and reality, and only vaguely aware of the blurred, grey view as he opened his tired dark-blue eyes to the early-morning gloom. The curtains of his room permitted a small haze of post-dawn luminescence, and he squinted vaguely at his groggy surroundings before groaning and burying his face into his pillow, tucking his arms underneath it and hugging it close to his head, cherishing the coolness of the fabric against his hands and forearms.

Delightful, deep and luxuriant breaths and half-remembered images crept up on him once more, and he started to slip back into his pleasant, if rather mundane dream, when –

"JOHN! SOMETHING'S WRONG!"

John didn't quite bolt out of bed, but as soon as he was consciously aware of Sherlock's insistent baritone yelling, he was awake, briefly rubbing his eyes of sleep, getting out of bed in the feather-grey fog of London at 7:AM. The consulting detective's loud voice seemed obstinate and childish, rather than urgent and life-threatening. He had known him long enough to tell the difference. He shrugged on his dressing-gown over his pyjamas, after feeling the chill of the flat permeating him as soon as he vacated his snug bed.

The doctor made his way to Sherlock's room, half-asleep, rapping his knuckles on the door.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"JOHN, GET IN HERE! _YOU'RE_ A DOCTOR!"

Sherlock's voice was now atypically high-pitched and seemingly frantic.

With a faint but instant tremor of panic, John opened Sherlock's door, finding a room almost totally dark except for a weak lamp beside the bed that shed a watery golden light. The dark curtains were drawn tight; no natural illumination pervaded the room. John had never had a reason or an invitation to go into Sherlock's bedroom before now, and this was his first time entering it.

Sherlock lay in his bed, curled on his side, facing away from John under large, bedraggled white sheets, which settled from his bare, lean chest, down to his ankles. The dark duvet had been kicked completely off of the bed. Sherlock was breathing heavily – clearly in distress.

"John! Something's happened to me," Sherlock muttered, immediately turning his head to meet John's gaze, his grey-green eyes stupendously bright and intense in spite of the frail light that illuminated them.

John had often thought that they reminded him of the Devil's eyes – animalistic, inhuman, beautiful and infinitely dangerous. Not that he was a particularly religious person – but he could imagine that the Devil might be able to –

Ah, forget that.

Again.

"What's up?" John asked simply, sleepy dark-blue eyes focussed on the pale, frightened ones before him. Sherlock turned with a small groan and laid flat on his back, looking more fazed and disturbed than John had ever seen him.

Ebony locks of curly, clean hair formed a soft halo about Sherlock's head. Dark, natural twists with…

This was normal.

His skin was an almost translucent white, pale and pure and…

This was normal.

Slim, narrow shoulders, keen, grey-green eyes…

This was normal.

When, however, the younger man, lying on his back in his bed, with merely a sheet to cover his modesty, cleared his throat and announced, "Something's wrong with me," and raised one long, pale finger to point, John finally shifted his gaze, and noticed that this was FAR from normal – at least in _his_ dealings with Sherlock.

The ashen-haired doctor rolled his dark blue eyes, laughing with disbelief and without humour.

"Sherlock…You are kidding me."

Sherlock's brows crinkled. His perfect cupid's-bow lips twitched and he frowned at John, his expression totally, honestly innocent and confused.

John stared back at him, open-mouthed. "Seriously, Sherlock? _Seriously_?"

The raven-haired detective just stared back at him, nonplussed. "Something's wrong with it. It's gone…odd," Sherlock pouted. "…What's your problem?"

"Sherlock…How _old_ are you? Have you – don't you –"

John sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "…Sherlock – you are not telling me that you've never had a hard-on?"

"A what?" Sherlock's smooth, pale face was crinkled in genuine confusion as he frowned at John.

"…For _fu_ -…" John took another few deep breaths, and fixed Sherlock with a gimlet eye. "There's nothing wrong with you. If you expect me to stand here and explain it to you, then you've got another thing coming."

Sherlock glared at John with pure vitriol, his grey-green eyes sharp and angry. "Aren't you going to help me?"

John laughed, partly from bitter amusement, and partly as a reaction of shock. "There's nothing wrong with you! I refuse to believe that this has never happened to you before. For God's sake, Sherlock, if you're just trying to piss me off…"

"John!" Sherlock spat, propping himself up in his bed and glaring at the doctor.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock…" John muttered to himself, rubbing his tired dark-blue eyes and turning to leave. "I'm going back to bed."

"But John!"

"Take care of it and don't bother me again."

"Take care of it?"

John paused, then turned back to fix Sherlock with a black look that suggested his patience was very nearly spent. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he spoke once more.

"There is no way, on God's earth, that I am going to explain this to you. It's one thing being ignorant of the solar system, but this is ridiculous. Google it if you have to, but leave me out of it."

Sherlock glanced towards his laptop, upon a table under the window.

"Laptop's miles away," he murmured petulantly.

"Figure it out then. You're supposed to be clever," John muttered, his words coming out harsher than he had intended.

Sherlock looked a little hurt, and then glanced down at his problem uncertainly.

"Well…what am I supposed to do?" He murmured quietly, partly to himself.

There were a few seconds of electric silence.

The doctor sighed once again, his blue eyes cold and dark.

"Just touch it."

"… _Touch_ it?" Sherlock's expression was still unfathomably childlike and mystified.

There was a very long, tense pause.

"…I swear to God, I will kill you one day," John hissed as he strode across the dim room with military focus, promptly knelt beside the bed, and shoved one hand roughly under the sheet, taking Sherlock in hand in one movement. He was a doctor, and this was hardly the first time he had touched another man, though not quite under these circumstances.

The detective flinched only very slightly, staring at John with an odd, deadpan expression on his face. John met his gaze briefly, blushing faintly, then began to work his fist up and down Sherlock's shaft gracelessly. He averted his eyes and fixed his long-suffering stare at some indistinct point on the mattress.

Sherlock's breaths instantly became more laboured, and he tensed sharply. John glanced at him, saw him lean his head back, his curly dark hair flattened against the headboard. He watched the detective's pale throat bob as he swallowed thickly, and porcelain eyelids closed lightly over those incredible grey-green eyes.

'Like that,' John was about to say, and leave the room, having instructed the eccentric detective, when Sherlock's mouth opened and he let out a vast, shaky exhale, arching slightly into the doctor's grip. John paused for a split second, then continued, his own stomach tightening and his body responding helplessly to the frankly, totally arousing sight of the detective.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock's hand blundered to John's wrist under the sheet, squeezing it tight. John wondered if it could really be possible that Sherlock was telling the truth, whether he had ever even had an orgasm. If so, he wasn't going to last long.

"John," came a baritone groan, and the detective shuddered hard, swallowing once more, and licking his cupid's bow lips instinctively. His grip on John's wrist tightened, and he began to thrust into his doctor's fist.

Sherlock allowed himself the slightest, indulgent half-smirk of predatory amusement that crinkled his face as John faced away from him. He replaced his childishly innocent mask within a moment.

Seconds later, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Okay, that's fine."

His voice was calm, expressionless.

John was about to voice his vague sentiments of confusion and indignation, when Sherlock pushed his hand roughly away and grabbed his own mobile phone from the edge of the mattress, and began typing quickly.

John opened his mouth, and before he could ask anything, Sherlock murmured, "Making some notes."

"Sherlock –"

"Goodnight John."

"But…don't you…"

"Goodnight John."

Sherlock's expression was typically blank, emotionless. He focussed on his phone, typing a few sentences before turning over abruptly and yanking his bed sheet over his head and snuggling in alone.


	2. Curiosity

 

A few weeks later…  
"…John? How many people have you killed?"

The doctor paused at his laptop, where he was ploddingly typing up a case, and gave Sherlock a look that suggested fatherly disapproval.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows expectantly from his perch several feet away on the sofa, clad in his usual T-shirt, PJ bottoms and blue dressing gown. The milky Saturday morning light from the window starkly highlighted the detective's extremely pale skin. Noting the faint traces of veins in his temples and on the backs of those long hands, John was often tempted to describe Sherlock's skin colour as 'blue.'

"Why, how many have you killed?" John replied tartly.

"Two."

John looked as if somebody had slapped him in the face. Sherlock just stared back at him expressionlessly.

"Self-defence," the younger man added flatly.

The doctor scanned the pale, angular face for a sign of jesting, but found nothing.

Finally dismissing that response for the good of his own mental health and wishing he'd never heard it in the first place, he turned back to his blog, muttering bitterly.

"I don't know how many. I wasn't exactly counting."

"I'm trying to bond with you, John. Don't be angry."

John frowned at the detective, once again befuddled by him.

"How about 'bonding' over something more light-hearted, then," he suggested somewhat sullenly. He knew he couldn't complain too much – there hadn't been a case in two days and by some miracle Sherlock had not sulked at all. He should probably make the most of his flatmates' relative tranquillity before the inevitable tantrum.

"How many people have you ever made love to?"

John tensed, then let out a long-suffering sigh, though he was faintly amused by Sherlock's turn of phrase.

"…Twenty-five. Thirty, don't know," he murmured.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his eyes unconsciously went to John's body, as if expecting to find some tangible residue of those people there.

John figured it was polite to return the question, despite the fact that this conversation was making him increasingly uncomfortable.

"And, um…you?"

"No."

"No what?"

"I haven't made love to anyone."

John felt the heat rising in the place just under his skin. There was that phrase again.

"Um…why not?"

"I've never been sufficiently attracted to anyone. And I have no desire to procreate."

John let out a nervous, amused huff of laughter, causing Sherlock to frown at him.

"Well, neither do I, it's not all about that. I mean, _I_ don't have any kids. It's…intimate, and pleasurable…and it creates a bond between two people who care for each other."

As soon as the last sentence left his mouth, he froze, especially when he saw Sherlock tilt his head and study him curiously.

"Well…anyway," John said quietly, blushing heroically and clearing his throat as he stared determinedly at his laptop screen.

"…John?"

"Leave it Sherlock. I can hear you thinking from here. Stop it."

Sherlock shrugged innocently.

"Were they all women?"

"I'm not answering that."

"Why not?"

"It's private."

"Oh, so they _weren't_ all women." Sherlock smugly steepled his long white fingers under his chin.

"So what?" John turned, bristling at him.

Sherlock grinned that little half-grin that made his face crinkle sweetly.

"Calm down John."

" _You_ can't talk anyway," John murmured almost inaudibly.

"…John?"

"Well...you just seem…you know. I mean, Mrs. Hudson, Angelo, Donovan…they know you. Apparently."

"I'm attracted to males as well as females, yes. Problem?" Sherlock shrugged lightly, his face calm.

"Well, guess you don't have to worry about 'procreation' there, then," John replied, half to himself.

There was a thoughtful silence.

"…Mm. Suppose not."

Sherlock scratched one long, white finger through his dark curls in contemplation, then grinned that dimpled grin once more at the army doctor.

"…Cluedo?"


	3. Inebriated

John made his way into the flat – wobbly, awkward, and quite drunk.

He stumbled into the drawing room, staggering towards the sofa, and crashing down on to it heavily. His arms were meant to support him in his descent to the couch, but they failed, and he ended up sprawled across the length of it, his eyelids dropping, and his body absolutely ready for rest.

It was just after midnight, and the drawing room's curtains were closed tight.

Outside, the London night was cold, crisp and black. A faint, metallic symphony of raindrops battered the window.

All the lights were off, but Sherlock had earlier lit four separate tall, creamy candles in various parts of the room. The air was warm and dense, and even with sober sight, the room was pleasantly, comfortingly gloomy. The detective himself was sitting in his armchair, staring at the buzzing television screen, fingers steepled under his pale chin. He was still fully dressed in a typical crisp shirt (deep, rich red today – must be a new one), black jacket and trousers. Dense copper shadows picked out the sharp lines of his pale cheekbones and jaw line and the flickering candlelight lent a healthy, golden hue to his skin.

John pushed knuckles and palms roughly into his tired, drunken eyes, before blinking hard a few times.

Sherlock turned his head calmly, and stared at his flatmate.

"Kirsty kissed you on the lips before you made your exit. She was wearing a cheap body spray and an equally cheap lipstick. The lipstick is already fading and drying, leaving a particularly unattractive coral residue on the corner of your lips. You went to a Japanese restaurant, I can smell the panko batter.

You have drunk two – no…three large glasses of white wine – Chardonnay. Australia, 2010. You also had two shots of vodka. Despite the fact that you had more than enough money to acquire a taxi, you chose to walk. This much is clear from your damp hair and clothes. It has rained lightly in London since about an hour ago. You had no umbrella, but you were grateful for the refreshment of a light, cold shower. You didn't bring an umbrella because you were hoping to stay the night at Kirsty's flat, and also, your hope was to indulge in sexual intercourse.

I can tell that you have had more than enough to drink from your left palm. You stumbled heavily on your walk back to this address; you scraped your hand against a rough brick wall, and your palm is grazed. Shall I postulate why you didn't want to spend any more time with Kirsty?"

"You…finished?" John slurred.

"Mm. I was bored. You left her because you had nothing in common," Sherlock said in his deep, emotionless voice.

"It's your fault."

"John?"

"Everyone's…dull compared to you," John said in a lazy half-sigh.

Sherlock's face softened into a rare smile.

"Thankyou John."

"I don't know why I put up with you," John continued, one arm over his face, his breathing laboured and his words almost incoherent from booze.

Sherlock settled further into his armchair, grinning. This could be entertaining. He turned the volume down slightly on the crime documentary he had been watching. Brides in the bath could wait.

"...Haven't had a shag in…year," John mumbled, sighing deeply.

"You'll live, John."

"You were…really just trying to piss me off a few weeks ago, weren't you? There's no way you've…never wanked."

Sherlock let out a small huff of laughter. "Of course I have. I'm not a complete android."

John rubbed his tired eyes again and rolled onto his side, hugging one of the sofa cushions under his head.

"Mandroid," John mumbled randomly.

There were a few minutes of peaceful quiet, disturbed only by the tones of the commentary on the documentary, and steady, cold rain pattering on the windows.

"C'm here," John said a little too loudly, his eyes still closed.

"Hmm?"

John just grunted and batted the sofa irritably.

Sherlock smirked and stood, stretching his long limbs slightly before going to kneel beside the sofa and waiting expectantly in the candlelit gloom.

"…I like your hair," John mumbled. Sherlock burst out laughing, before John opened bleary blue eyes and extended one shaky hand to Sherlock's hair, roughly mussing his soft dark curls and narrowly avoiding poking him in the eye.

Sherlock allowed it, patiently letting the doctor ruffle his hair until his hand dropped and once more squeezed the pillow to himself, eyes closing.

The detective stood and went to the dark kitchen to get John a glass of water to stop him dehydrating. Returning to the sofa, he shook the dozing doctor gently awake.

"Drink this before you sleep."

John groaned extensively, then propped himself up, downing the tall glass in a few big swallows, then passing the glass back to Sherlock with trembling fingers and crashing back down to a horizontal position.

"Goodnight John."

Sherlock observed the sleeping doctor for a few seconds, then raised his own pale hand to John's head, and, after a tentative wait, settled his hand into the doctor's ash-brown hair. He kept it there for half a minute – running his thumb through the short, pale, military locks – before moving back and crossing the room to settle back in front of his crime documentary.


	4. Analysis

The first thing that struck John when he returned home from work was the music. It was a few days after his failed date, and he was feeling generally melancholy, partly because of the relatively mundane consultations at the surgery (he was pining for a case with Sherlock even more than the detective was), and because the sky had already been very dark, cold, and miserable when he left – much as it had been when he had vacated the flat that morning. The second thing that hit him was a thick, face-tingling heat that was instantly comforting and calming. Sherlock had lit a roaring fire, and it spat and popped loudly over the dulcet sound of the music.

Shrugging off his jacket, he glanced with little surprise at the detective, who was curled up on his armchair, peering down with barely-restrained fascination at a large, complicated-looking machine before him on the coffee table, which trailed wires. Such odd sights frequently awaited him upon his return home. For once though, Sherlock had eschewed his dressing gown and wore his T-shirt and PJ bottoms, exposing long, pale arms.

"Evening," the doctor announced, kneeling before the fireplace and warming his hands before the noisy, crackling orange flames, just at the distance where his skin felt delightfully just-a-bit-too-hot.

He got a non-committal grunt in reply, Sherlock not looking up from his gadget.

"Is there any reason why you're playing a Nat King Cole CD? I didn't know you even had a CD player."

Sherlock waved a hand to the mantelpiece distractedly. "Mrs. Hudson brought it up."

"What for?" John asked, picking up the CD box and looking at the list of songs on the back.

"Don't know," Sherlock shrugged.

The doctor groaned inwardly when he noted that half the songs had the word 'Love' in the title. He thought Mrs. Hudson had long since given up trying to get them together. At the moment, something called 'Let's Fall In Love' was playing – a sultry, likeable song. John just did his best not to listen to the intensely romantic lyrics.

Sherlock seemed oblivious.

"Dare I ask what that is?" John asked the transfixed detective, who pushed a long white finger against a button and happily watched a short ream of paper eject from a printer. Appearing to check a dial, he picked up a pen, and then consulted a few hand-written notes.

"Polygraph."

"A lie detector? …Where did you get it?"

"Found it."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Use it."

John sighed, pulling off his thick cable-knit jumper in the stifling heat of the room, and adjusting his dark long-sleeved shirt before settling in his own chair opposite Sherlock.

"I take it you mean, use it on _me_."

"Initially, yes. I made some notes from the Internet on how to use it. It should be fairly straightforward."

John rolled his eyes and relaxed into his chair, watching Sherlock quietly. He had been forced to take a very belated lunch, and wasn't particularly hungry.

"…Sherlock, do you-"

"I made some lasagne earlier. Had that. Half left if you want," Sherlock stated laconically.

John's mouth fell slowly open. Something was definitely going on now. Sherlock wasn't climbing the walls at the lack of cases, he was cooking, he was _eating_.

"…Why?" he asked simply, a wealth of implication in that question.

Sherlock shrugged again, and made a couple more notes, eyes still down, before beckoning John over to him with a brief hand gesture. "Drag the armchair over here."

John obeyed without questioning him, glancing with some confusion at Sherlock as the tall man strode past him into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. The detective's typically deadpan face revealed nothing as he busied himself with uncorking the wine and filling two glasses, leaving them on the edge of the table that was mostly being taken up by the bulky contraption.

John was still staring at him when the taller man frowned at him impatiently.

"Well?"

The doctor stared a few seconds more, then blinked away the feeling that he was hallucinating. Perhaps he had fallen asleep at the surgery and this was a bizarre dream.

He dragged the armchair alongside Sherlock's, and sat down nervously.

Nat King Cole was still crooning soothingly, doing little to ease his trepidation.

"You know they say psychopaths can override these things. No point asking _you_ anything," he murmured, as Sherlock started, applying two clips to John's fingers, and a cuff to his upper arm, intense concentration in his sharp grey-green eyes.

Sherlock appeared not to hear, instead, describing the process.

"It measures blood pressure, heart rate, respiration, and electro-dermal activity. And I can see your unconscious eye movements myself."

"Sherlock, I don't know about this," John stammered, as Sherlock wrapped two black tubes around his chest and stomach.

"Relax John."

"I can't relax, it feels like I'm in a bloody electric chair!"

Sherlock grinned that small crinkled grin. "You have to relax or the results won't be accurate."

He disappeared behind John's armchair, and the doctor flinched sharply as heavy, strong hands settled on his shoulders and rubbed gently.

"…Sherlock," John stuttered awkwardly, freezing up under the detective's administrations, feeling his face flood with colour, the room suddenly far too hot, a furnace of tension.

"Listen to the music, relax."

"I can't, for God's _sake_ , Sherlock, this is…weird," John mumbled, feeling panicky.

Sherlock just continued to knead his surprisingly skilled thumbs into John's back, neck, shoulderblades. It was many minutes before John finally unlocked his rigid muscles, though his breathing was elevated, his face reddened. The tiniest graze of Sherlock's thumbs against the hair on the nape of his neck made him shiver, and he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself and fight the buzzing thrill of actual physical contact with Sherlock.

The heat and weight of Sherlock's hands left him, and he watched Sherlock go to the wine glasses, taking a few sips of his own, licking his lips at the fruity taste, and offering John his.

The doctor hesitated, then took a few big gulps, still unsettled. Feeling Sherlock's cool gaze on him, he soon downed the rest, taking a deep, fortifying breath.

Sherlock grinned and took his glass, refilling it and leaving it on the edge of the table, before having a few more swallows of his own wine, then settling down into his chair and readying his pen, to make notes on the graphical print-out that would begin when he turned the machine on.

"First I ask you simple questions – name, address, etcetera – to see what truthful answers look like in comparison. You're right, some people can control their reactions and seem truthful when lying. A lot of government employees can do this. No doubt Mycroft has mastered the art. Remember – the answers are always either yes or no. If you try and avoid either of these I'll just rephrase the question."

John felt his nerves swiftly returning at this clinical speech and wished he had just gone straight up to his room to read a book, maybe have a wank, and go to bed.

Nat King Cole was singing something about the end of a beautiful friendship and the start of love.

"Ready?" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

"No," he replied bluntly, as Sherlock smirked and turned the machine on. It was surprisingly quiet – John was expecting it to sound like a 1980's printer.

"Is your name John Hamish Watson?"

"…Yes."

"Do you live at 221B Baker Street?"

"Yes."

Sherlock peered down at the elaborate readings on the paper that steadily printed from the machine.

"Okay, that's fine. Do you like living here?"

John frowned a little. Odd question. "Yes."

"Are you glad that you met me?"

John turned to face the pale detective, an eyebrow raised. "Is this just some ego trip for you?"

"Are you going to answer?"

John sighed. "Yes. I'm glad."

"Do you fear dying?"

"…No."

"Do you wish you'd done anything different in your life?"

John paused thoughtfully. "No."

"Would you be annoyed if I spilt acid on your favourite jumper?"

John giggled softly. "Yes, you bastard."

Sherlock turned to look at him, smiling faintly.

"Are you attracted to me?"

John's giggles stopped dead, and he stared stoically ahead, swallowing lightly and focussing on his breathing whilst trying not to be obvious about it.

"No."

Sherlock's expression gave nothing away as he glanced back to his graph results, nodding.

"Okay then. Tested the machine out anyway. Want to do me?"

John was already shrugging off the cuff, clips and bands, shoving them away as if they were white-hot.

"No." He was feeling completely mortified as he got up, downed the second glass of wine, and snatched up his jumper.

"Just one thing – Mrs. Hudson never brought that damn music up here did she?"

Sherlock looked up from scribbling on the results, and merely smiled.

John bad-temperedly started towards the stairs to his room, when Sherlock called out to him.

"You did well, John. You nearly passed. Just one answer was erroneous."

The doctor stormed upstairs without another word, his face on fire with blushes, his heart hammering and his fists clenched.

Behind him, Nat sang of serenades and sensuality.


	5. Storm

As John crossed the threshold into 221B after work that evening, he glanced up at the overcast sky. It was a deep, bruise-grey, packed with plump, pregnant-looking clouds. It was going to pour down with rain at any minute. The temperature was unusually mild, considering the past few weeks had been bitterly, seasonally cold.

Stepping inside the flat, he practically bumped into Mrs. Hudson, who was sweetly dressed and pretty as always, in a deep purple dress.

"Hello dear," she beamed, coming up to him and touching his shoulder tenderly. "I shouldn't say anything," she whispered conspiratorially, "but you're going to _love_ it, it's beautiful!"

John was nonplussed.

"Love what, Mrs. Hudson?"

She dramatically put a finger to her lips. "I've said too much, dear. Oh, I baked some chocolate cake for you boys, I left it in the fridge."

"Thanks," John grinned. "Is Sherlock in?"

"He's gone to Angelo's. He told me to send you to meet him."

"'Kay. I'll see you later."

John promptly exited the flat once more, looking forward to treating himself to some kind of massive, calorie-laden bowl of creamy pasta.

It was only a five-minute walk to his and Sherlock's much-visited local restaurant.

Pushing open the door of Angelo's, he stepped inside. It was already nearly full of patrons, the atmosphere as warm and cosy as ever. Peering around, he saw no sign of Sherlock.

Thinking the detective might have ventured out somewhere for a sneaky cigarette, he exited once more into the London evening chill and pulled out his phone.

**Mrs Hudson said youre at Angelos? Cant see you**

**JW**

**Yes on roof**

**SH**

John frowned, and immediately glanced upward. He dimly saw a gloved hand waving cheerily at him over the edge of the roof.

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh, and re-entered the building. He saw no sign of Angelo, but Billy was near the door picking up a couple of menus.

"Um…Sherlock's here?" he asked awkwardly.

"Yes, he's on roof. I take you in just a moment," Billy grinned, his thick Italian accent as charming as the ambience of the restaurant.

The doctor waited patiently for a minute, and Billy returned, beckoning him towards the back of the restaurant.

"Has he…done this before?" John asked, as they both went into the staff area, and up a clinically grey flight of stairs. There was a prevalent melody of sizzling frying, waiters swearing, and constant yells in Italian for things that John couldn't understand.

"Sometimes he comes to roof, yes." The waiter's voice echoed loudly in the cold staircase as he fought against the other noises.

Soon they reached a heavy-looking metal door with a fire exit sign starkly pasted onto it in red and white, and Billy let John out.

"Just up stairs," Billy smiled, gesturing the doctor out of the door, into the cold air of London, and up a short flight of metal stairs.

As the door closed behind him, John felt as well as heard the ominous rumble of thunder, and, almost immediately after, the heavens opened and an instant deluge of freezing rain pummelled the surfaces around him, spitting like acid.

Wincing, shielding his head with one hand, he mounted slippery stairs to the roof, then trotted swiftly over to the detective he could plainly see sitting cross-legged at the far edge of the roof, holding an oversized umbrella.

He had never seen the umbrella before. It was at least double the normal size, like the huge parasols that normally shaded picnic tables in a back garden. It was see-through and curved in a full half-circle, totally shielding the detective, whose long coat was tucked underneath him, safe and dry. It was as if someone somewhere was designing umbrellas just for couples to snuggle under in bad weather.

Reaching Sherlock through deafening barrages of hissing rain, already practically saturated, he scrambled under the umbrella, pressing tight against the taller man's right side and shaking his head, droplets of cold rain flying from his ash-brown hair.

Sherlock turned to grin warmly at him. "Hello."

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked loudly, smiling his clown-like smile. He had to raise his voice over the noise of the constant rain battering the transparent plastic of the umbrella.

"Thinking. Looking." Sherlock pointed one gloved hand, lifting the umbrella slightly so John could see past the colourless mosaic of rainy rivulets on the umbrella.

John had to admit that the view really was amazing. They seemed to be able to see for miles, and the thousands of lights of central London created an ethereal dusky glow, just above the hundreds of bright buildings, just below the black, turbulent sky studded with dim stars.

"Mrs. Hudson was being cryptic," John said, having to almost yell above an apocalyptic shudder of thunder. "Apparently there's some kind of present for me. Any ideas?"

"It's a secret," Sherlock grinned.

"She made cake as well."

"I know. I'm having it for dinner."

John laughed softly. He had worn his new coat today, a thigh-length black one, and he tugged it tighter around himself.

"Is it safe up here?"

"No metal in the umbrella," Sherlock stated, as a neon-blue flash of silent lightning lit the sky.

John was surprised at the snugness under the canopy – apart from the plasticky smell, it was cosy, and nicely warmed by Sherlock's trapped body heat.

They sat in happy silence for a few minutes, when Sherlock shifted the umbrella somewhat awkwardly to his left hand, and extended his right one in front of John.

"Could you take my glove off please."

The doctor obeyed, pulling the soft, supple leather from Sherlock's pale, blue-veined hand, and stuffing the glove into the detective's coat pocket.

"Hand."

"What?"

" _Hand_ ," Sherlock insisted, his long hand palm-upward just above John's knee.

Confused, John lifted his left hand and offered it into Sherlock's line of sight.

Rolling his eyes and sighing, the detective grabbed his hand and held it tightly.

A fainter gurgle of thunder sounded overhead, another flash of electric-blue lightning.

"…Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

"…We're…holding hands," the doctor laughed, with a mix of disbelief and amusement, much the same tone as the first time they had found themselves in Buckingham Palace.

"Yes John."

The doctor couldn't keep an elated grin off his face, blushing faintly and looking down at the slick, rain-drenched roof edge he could see beyond the colourless plastic of the umbrella.

For a few more minutes nothing was said, until Sherlock began to postulate on something he had discovered about the feeding habits of the maggots he had been keeping partly as pets, partly as an experiment, in an empty ice-cream tub in the bathroom.

John listened contentedly, eventually finding the courage to gently squeeze Sherlock's cool hand, his heart thrilling when he instantly received a small squeeze in return.

They chatted amicably for about an hour, Sherlock pausing every now and then to amuse himself by peering over the edge of the roof and deducing the passers-by below.

John could only imagine how terrifying it would be to look up by chance and see Sherlock's ghostly face staring down at them from the roof.

It was as the rain slowed, then stopped, that John shifted, his legs tingly and half-asleep beneath him. "Come on, let's go home."

Sherlock let go of his hand and stood up, stretching languidly and closing the umbrella, shaking it vigorously to get rid of the excess rainwater clinging to it. He pulled out his phone and sent a short text, and by the time they got across the roof and down the treacherously slippery stairs, Billy was at the open fire door, waiting for them with a smile.

Making their way downstairs and through the crowded, buzzing, delightfully warm and cosy restaurant, Sherlock looked as calm and composed as ever, whilst John felt distinctly sheepish, a noticeable rosy tint on his cheeks.

They wandered back to the flat in companionable silence, mounting the stairs and pulling off their coats as they did so.

Sherlock lit a couple of the candles he seemed to have taken to buying lately, and slumped into his armchair with a gratified sigh, flicking on the television and scrolling through the channels until he discovered a program about unsolved mysteries that had just started. John rummaged in the kitchen for something to eat, when Sherlock's baritone voice called out to him.

"Bring cake please. And a fork."

The doctor grinned and pulled the decadent-looking chocolate cake from the fridge, cutting out a small slice and depositing the crumbly, sweet-smelling mess on a plate for the detective.

Placing it in Sherlock's outstretched hands, he watched as the taller man began to eat hungrily, his eyes never leaving the screen. Sherlock was wearing a black shirt today under his jacket, and with his sable curls and milky-white skin, he made an interesting study in monochrome.

He sat on the sofa some time later, having devoured a double-decker sandwich, and watched the detective as inconspicuously as he could.

Before too long however, he was beginning to nod, and resigned himself to bed. Standing, he approached the detective, who was on his third slice of cake, chewing steadily.

"Um…night, Sherlock," John said, biting his lip briefly before leaning down and kissing the taller man chastely on the forehead, his heart pounding and his face burning.

Sherlock looked away from the screen and into his dark-blue eyes, frowning.

"What was _that_?"

"Oh…S-Sorry, I–"

He was cut short as Sherlock put his plate temporarily on the chair's arm, planted his hand on the back of John's head, and pulled him strongly in for a hard kiss on the lips.

It was only a few seconds of dry, warm, chocolate-tasting pressure, but it was perfect, and stung John with a violent, dizzy thrill.

As Sherlock broke the kiss, his expression as deadpan as ever, John let out a sharp exhale, eyes dark and face red.

"Night John," Sherlock said, with that small, crinkly half-grin, and went back to his cake and TV program.

The doctor stumbled away and upstairs, scratching his head self-consciously, and Sherlock smiled to himself.

The program started talking about the Loch Ness Monster.

If there were no cases soon, maybe he would take a trip up to Scotland and investigate it himself.


	6. Close Quarters

John attained little sleep that night. After the unexpected but delightful kiss, he dizzily made his way to his bedroom, opened his window wide for some much needed air, shut off the light, undressed and crawled into bed, buzzing with exhilaration.

He managed to take a few deep breaths of the sweet, cool air that intermittently sighed into his room, and then exhaled conclusively. Curling onto his side, his mind still swirling and his nerves a network of helpless tremors, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to replay the kiss over and over, the conversation preceding it, the hand-holding in the rain on the roof of Angelo's.

It was nearly two hours before his thoughts melted into dreams, and he fell deeply asleep.

The doctor was dead weight in his bed as he slept an almost unconscious, dreamless sleep at 5.30am, curled on his side. His room was pitch black, silent, and chilled. His duvet was pulled high over his head and tucked tight around him.

"John. I'm coming in," Sherlock called loudly from outside his door, before pushing it open hard, banging it against the wall noisily. He flicked on the light switch mercilessly.

"John. Wake up, we've got a case. Up up up!" He exclaimed, striding to John's bed energetically and roughly shaking his cocooned form. The army doctor made a faint, sleepy noise, then snuggled further into his shelter. Sherlock frowned, and shook him even harder, the mattress squeaking slightly. A now distinctly disgruntled noise sounded, followed by a barely audible, "Sod off."

The detective pulled an irritated face, then clambered onto the bed, sitting awkwardly on John's warm, duvet-wrapped form, one knee resting either side of his midsection. Looking down at the doctor (or at least the top of his head, which was all he could see of him), he started to peel back the duvet.

A hand emerged into the cool morning air and swatted vaguely at him. Sherlock seized it and kissed the knuckles hard. John stilled and quietened, and the detective grinned from his slightly wobbly perch on top of the doctor. If he had to resort to underhand tactics to get John motivated, then so be it.

He peeled the duvet down a little further, watching John wince as the cruel, eye-watering light of the room became apparent to him. Grinning smugly, he leant down and kissed John's cheek, dotting a few light kisses down to the corner of his mouth. Instinctively, the doctor turned, eyes opening blurrily, and catching Sherlock's mouth with his own, sighing softly. The detective allowed this for a second, then pulled back.

John squinted at him, turning awkwardly under the detective's (surprisingly heavy) weight, so he was on his back underneath him, with just a duvet between them. His heart thudded in appreciation at Sherlock – his dressing gown was hanging loosely off his narrow shoulders, and there was no sign of the well-worn grey T-shirt underneath, just an expanse of smooth white chest and abdomen until the blue PJ bottoms obscured the rest of him. John swallowed and chewed on his bottom lip as he drank in the sight. He was already feeling a little breathless in hopeful anticipation, and admittedly he was rapidly getting hard. A sudden image of the detective riding him like this, desperate and heavy and noisy and damp, flashed into his mind's eye, and he barely held back a gasp of helpless arousal. Sherlock raised an incredulous eyebrow as if he had seen a glimpse of that thought, then leaned down to his face once more.

John eagerly rose to meet those cupid's bow lips again. The detective allowed the briefest, teasing glance of mouth on mouth, then leapt off the bed and whipped the duvet off of the doctor in one move, like a magician whipping the tablecloth from beneath a display of expensive china. John yowled and curled up on himself as a gust of freezing air assaulted him, and he was grateful that he was wearing his PJ's that night – firstly for the added warmth, and secondly because he had narrowly avoided giving Sherlock a shock by sleeping with nothing on.

"Train's in 50 minutes. Pack a bag. We'll be away two nights. Bring warm clothes. Hurry up." Sherlock announced, then promptly spun away and swept from the room, slamming the door deafeningly behind him.

An hour later, they were on board a swift-moving train, in a bank of four seats within a quiet compartment. Sherlock and John sat opposite each other next to the window, their bags dumped on the seats beside them.

The doctor had his head against the cool glass, eyes lightly closed, arms crossed, and every now and then his skull bumped softly against the window with a rumble and bounce of the train on its tracks. Sherlock sat quite happily listening to music on his mobile through stringy in-ear headphones, gazing out at the grey, grimy landscape of London.

John was awake, but barely. As soon as he found himself drifting off, he sat up straight and stretched, rubbing his eyes hard, and groaning, looking dishevelled. Sherlock had bustled them through the station at breakneck speed, leaving no time for ingestion of caffeine. John had been so dazed that Sherlock had bought tickets and ushered him through the busy hub and onto a long train before he even had a chance to ask where the hell they were going.

"You can sleep if you want, John," the detective said suddenly, breaking the thrumming quiet of the compartment. "We won't be there for a few hours."

"... _Hours_? Sherlock, where on earth are you taking us?"

"Cumbria."

John's eyes blazed and he opened his mouth to spit out some indignant curse, when Sherlock interrupted. "I phoned Sarah for you. Got you a few days off sick. It's easy to impersonate someone's voice when they're supposed to have the flu," he grinned.

John glared at him in disapproval and disbelief.

"I have a friend who owns a pub up there, owes me a favour. We've got free lodging for a few days. Should be enough time for the case to be solved. I'll tell you about it when we get there."

John offered him his most long-suffering, admonishing gaze, which only got him an innocent smile in return. Rubbing his eyes, he sat back and sighed loudly.

"How do you even _know_ these people? These...friends," John murmured.

Sherlock gave him a firm but fond look that said 'You really ought to know better than to ask questions like that anymore, John.'

"...For a sociopath you certainly are generous. Doing people favours, I mean. Wonder what sort of favour you'd do me." He hadn't meant it in a provocative way, but the implication hit him when Sherlock narrowed his eyes in a cat-like way, smirked, and said, "Why, what kind of favour would you _like_ me to do for you?"

John was slightly unsettled by this side of Sherlock, though he had to admit, the unadulterated fire in those green-grey eyes was nearly too much for a poor army doctor to handle. Swallowing, he crossed his arms again, and found himself glancing towards Sherlock's overnight bag. He frowned slightly. It was expensive-looking – black, with purple paisley swirls. He wondered if it was a woman's bag.

Sherlock saw his expression and grabbed his bag, pulling it onto his lap and hugging it protectively, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at John. Getting the hint, the doctor held his hands up in placation, then started to gaze out of the window.

After ten minutes, Sherlock lifted his bag and promptly chucked it across to land on John's, where it teetered a bit, then fell heavily to the floor. Ignoring it, Sherlock patted the seat beside him, took one of his earbuds out and proffered it. John crossed to sit beside the detective, and accepted the earpiece, inserting it and settling back to the sound of Chopin.

A long time passed, the music apparently some classical playlist, with Brahms, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn. John's head had gradually nodded until Sherlock extended a hand and encouraged him to rest his head on his shoulder, where the doctor happily dozed, his breathing gradually deepening.

Sherlock too, closed his eyes, enjoying the soothing music.

Twenty seconds later, John jolted violently, as an ear-shattering German death metal song screamed through the headphone. Gasping, he yanked out the earpiece, staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked as serene as ever, his eyelids lightly shut, his countenance peaceful.

"...Helps me relax. This is my 'Chill' playlist."


	7. Blizzard

It was gone 10am when Sherlock ushered John out into the frigid, numbing cold of the northern county. The doctor had gone beyond the point of tiredness and out the other side into shaky hyper-awareness, helped partly by the fact that when he noticed a Starbucks in the train station, he had refused to walk another step until Sherlock got him an industrial-sized coffee, Right Now. Sherlock had sat beside him patiently while the doctor slowly drank the much-needed, steaming beverage.

When he was done, they wandered through bustling, noisy crowds to the entrance, whereupon the heating in the station abruptly stopped, and the icy temperature outside hit them hard, seizing their chests and causing their fingers to ache painfully. There were a lot of people milling around out here, waiting for lifts, talking and texting on phones, taking out maps, smoking long-awaited cigarettes. Sherlock eyed the latter group dolefully.

John shivered violently, peering up at the milky sky, from which drifted the faintest specks of light snow. Sherlock glanced down at the doctor, and took his hand, rubbing it slightly to warm it.

The doctor flinched and stared at him, yanking his hand away as if he had touched fire, a look of shock on his face. Sherlock frowned deeply. "Problem?"

"Not _here_ , Sherlock," John murmured warningly, glancing around with apparent discomfort and blushing a little.

Sherlock's brow crinkled even more, and he nodded pointedly to a couple holding hands as they walked past them.

"Yeah, but they're..." John trailed off as the young man and his girlfriend strode past, wrapped in parkas, faces glowing, talking animatedly.

Sulkily, Sherlock stormed off to the nearest cab, pulling open the boot and chucking his bag carelessly inside before getting into the back seat, giving the driver a slip of paper with an address on it, and then sitting back and crossing his arms tight with a look of resolute petulance on his pale face.

They were soon on their way, the detective pouting and looking coldly ahead. John sighed, and attempted to mollify him.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. Don't sulk, it doesn't suit you," he said quietly, with a weak smile.

The taller man shrugged huffily as if it made no difference to him, and turned to glare out of the window.

The doctor took a deep breath, then reached across to the detective, taking the cold, pale hand closest to him and gripping it tightly. Sherlock instantly brightened, grinning, and quickly unfolded his arms, getting into a more comfortable position and happily holding John's hand, running his thumb repeatedly over the other man's.

"Can I kiss you?" Sherlock asked suddenly, and John froze – the detective's voice had been loud and clear in the close confines of the taxi, and the driver didn't even have the radio on. The cabbie didn't appear to have heard, and if he did, he wasn't paying much attention, focussing as he was on navigating a series of complicated roundabouts on the outskirts of the town, the swirling snow flurries becoming more frantic and heavy.

John turned to look reprovingly into those keen eyes, which were very green today, and starkly bright against his white skin, under his soft dark curls.

"When we get there," he promised quietly, his face burning with embarrassment.

Sherlock grinned and settled back in his seat, taking out his mobile with his free hand and starting to text.

It was half an hour before they reached the out-of-the-way pub, in a charming little village that was now covered with a light dusting of snow. Weightless flecks still drifted down constantly from the freezing, milk-white sky. Sherlock paid the driver and swept out into the frigid air. Hoisting open the boot and taking out their bags, he sighed contentedly, the exhale a visible billow in the numbing cold.

John's face was already starting to burn from the bitter low temperature, and he shivered hard as he peered around at the rather desolate-looking village. There were one or two people trudging along the streets, wrapped tight in hats and scarves. The pub looked very inviting, with its thatched roof and old-fashioned character, its windows glowing, warm and welcoming. He was surveying the street absent-mindedly, watching the cab drive away, when cold hands seized his face and Sherlock kissed him ferociously.

The taller man moaned against him as he kissed him thoroughly, and John could barely think as he opened his mouth slightly and Sherlock's tongue found his, warm and wet, mating with his own eagerly. The doctor sighed desperately, his hands finding themselves under Sherlock's coat and on his waist, his body heat delightful. The soft, sucking sounds of the kiss were oddly loud in the blanketing silence of the snow.

Finding himself rapidly hardening, John reluctantly pulled away after a few failed attempts, where Sherlock had merely followed him and kissed him even harder. Chest heaving, John was getting his breath back when Sherlock dove in once more, catching his mouth and kissing passionately.

"Sh-Sherlock," John managed, physically having to push the detective's face away. Sherlock looked flushed, his cupid's-bow lips parted and slightly reddened, and he was breathing hard. His eyes were wide and eager, and impossibly bright green.

"Do we go to bed now?" Sherlock asked innocently, licking his lips slightly.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, glancing around in embarrassment. "Please _try_ and keep your voice down, will you?"

The detective sighed and picked up his bag, giving John another quick kiss before heading towards the pub. Feeling a little shell-shocked, the doctor followed close behind.

Sherlock chatted to a guy in his sixties behind the bar, soon flourishing a key in front of John, and disappearing up a flight of well-worn wooden stairs.

John groaned, wondering why he had expected anything different, upon seeing the king-size bed where Sherlock had dumped his bag, shrugging off his long coat and draping it over the back of a chair. The room was sumptuous, small but cosy, with deep red walls and a gleaming hardwood floor. A few chairs, with chintzy patterns, were dotted around, and the tables and wardrobe and other heavy furniture were solid, sturdy mahogany.

Sherlock abruptly relieved John of his bag and shut the door behind him, standing before the doctor and grinning.

"...Um...Sherlock...gonna tell me about this case then?" The shorter man asked uncertainly.

"Case? Oh, there is no case. I just lied," the detective smiled cheerfully.

"You...woke me up at half five in the morning – to get on a train and travel for three hours to get here – and there's no case?"

"Nope," Sherlock grinned.

John rubbed his eyes and sighed one of his increasingly frequent, long-suffering sighs.

"I thought you might like a...what do you call it – holiday," Sherlock offered, sounding as though the word was alien to him.

"Oh, Sherlock," John groaned in tired resignation.

"Don't you like it?" The detective shrugged, as he pulled off his jacket and turned, starting to unpack his bag.

"It's very nice Sherlock."

"...But?"

"But...I just don't know what goes through your head sometimes, you lunatic."

Sherlock huffed a small laugh. "Obviously."

"I don't see why we had to cross the bloody country."

"It's nice up here. Romantic."

John flinched slightly, and he bit his bottom lip. "Sherlock...we should probably talk about...all this, you know."

"Mm?" Sherlock hummed distractedly, rummaging through a carrier bag he had produced from his luggage.

"Well...suddenly we're...well...kind of a couple."

"Yes?"

"Well...is that...okay with you?" John asked rather feebly.

"Of course John. It's more than okay. You're the only person I could ever imagine myself with."

The doctor's heart palpitated at Sherlock's startling honesty. He opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say.

"Come on John. Hurry up and unpack, we're going exploring."

The doctor glanced out of the large window, at the chaotic flurries of snow that swept down from a frozen sky.

"It's a blizzard out there, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up and peered at the heavy snow. "Oh," he said simply.

"What exactly did you plan to do up here?"

Sherlock gave him a 'Really John, must you even ask?' look.

"Have you ever done anything without an ulterior motive?"

Sherlock considered this seriously, biting his lip in thought.

"Never mind. What's the motive this time?"

The detective looked at him calmly, before crossing the room and planting a hand firmly between his legs, rubbing him gently through his jeans.

"...Oh," John managed in a small voice, and pulled away awkwardly, face on fire with blushes.

"I was hoping to make love to you."

The doctor scratched his head, feeling dizzy. Clearing his throat, he nodded dumbly and went to his bag on the bed, unpacking it with unsteady hands.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "Problem?"

"No...no problem," John murmured, swallowing nervously. "I'm, um...I mean, that sounds...good."

Sherlock grinned at his obvious discomfort. "Don't know what _you're_ so worried about. At least you've done it before."

"It's just...a bit sudden," John shrugged. "I'm flattered, really...just...can't believe you really want to do it. After all this time – and with me of all people."

"I told you John, you're the only person I could be with. Believe it or not, I do care for you."

John laughed softly, heartened by Sherlock's characteristic bluntness.

"I bought...things," Sherlock announced, rifling through his carrier bag, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

"What are they?" John asked, trying to see inside the bag.

"...I don't know," Sherlock admitted, frowning.

John had a look, laughing softly as he saw various bottles and what could only be described as gadgets.

"Well how did you get them?"

"I just went into the shop and bought anything that looked promising."

"Sherlock – half of this stuff is for women," John giggled, and the detective's face fell.

"Oh," Sherlock said quietly, looking depressed. He picked up a small bullet-shaped toy and pushed the button pensively, watching it buzz quietly.

Blushing, John took it off him and chucked it back in the bag. "Doesn't matter. You got the most important stuff, anyway."

Sherlock brightened, smiling proudly.

"Come on, I'm starved. Let's get something to eat," John announced, pulling off his coat and draping it over Sherlock's on one of the chintzy chairs.

Sherlock nodded affirmatively, grinning, before leading the way from the room, and down shining wooden stairs to the bar.


	8. Pact

"So, this, um - this present?" John asked, as Sherlock returned from ordering at the bar, to join him in a snug booth in a skin-tingling hot corner of the pub, close to a roaring, crackling fireplace. The detective snuggled happily into the comfortable red leather of the high-backed seat, casting his sharp grey-green eyes at the large window beside him. It was rapidly being smothered and darkened with dense, crystalline snowflakes, and despite the sturdy, ancient build of the pub, the violent wind could be heard howling loudly outside. It wasn't yet midday, but the small pub was almost full – a few elderly couples, a family with toddlers, single older men sipping beers, and a gaggle of six male youths, who were already fairly rowdy.

Sherlock seemed to ignore John for a moment, tapping away at his phone before tucking it away in his trouser pocket. "Mm? Oh…It's at home. You have to wait." He gave a brief grin, before straightening his tight purple shirt, then placing his hands on the table and tapping long, pale fingers on the dark, hard wood.

John nodded acceptingly, glancing around the snug pub, relishing the delightful warmth and feeling almost grateful that Sherlock had taken it upon himself to falsify his absence from work and drag him across the country for a mini-break.

"…Sherlock…how long ago did you set this up?"

The ebony-haired detective met his eyes. "A week or so. I estimated that there would be a ninety-seven percent chance of a positive reaction when I held your hand at Angelo's."

"Positive reaction?"

"I realised I had succeeded when you couldn't stop grinning like a fool."

John let out a short, breathy laugh. "And the other three percent?"

Sherlock's pale brow creased slightly. "That was something I was praying against."

"Praying?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Translate," John grinned, dark-blue eyes amused.

Sherlock sighed deeply, rolling his bright, grey-green eyes. "Must I?"

"Humour me."

The detective eyed his doctor's teasing, fond expression, then relented. He opened his mouth to reply when something nudged his leg, and he looked down to see a rather geriatric-looking spaniel wagging its tail hopefully at him. Positively beaming, the detective reached down and ruffled its silky, grey-flecked ears fondly, cooing at it. Its heavy pink tongue lolled and its wet brown eyes leaked love at Sherlock.

John let out a sharp laugh, stunned, as Sherlock coddled the dog lovingly, before its owners called it back, and it waddled off slowly, tail still wagging. Sherlock looked a little crestfallen.

"Didn't know you had a soft spot for small, cute, cuddly things," the doctor grinned.

"I like _you_ , don't I?"

John gave him a Look, then turned his attention to the immense Full English that had been placed in front of him.

Sherlock grinned as two plates were placed before him, both harbouring large slices of blueberry cheesecake.

John picked up his cutlery, frowning curiously at the detective. " _Two_ portions, Sherlock?"

"I like cake," Sherlock replied simply, shrugging, before digging in hungrily to the first sweet, creamy slice.

* * *

 

"You know, I was thinking of getting us a pet," Sherlock announced, once their empty plates had been taken away, half an hour later.

"I dread to think of a cat or dog in 221B – you can't look after yourself, and I can _barely_ look after you," John grinned.

"I was thinking, perhaps a scorpion. I think Ulysses is a good name."

"…Ulysses…the scorpion?"

"Mm."

"…No."

Sherlock pouted a little, then sighed. "…I suppose you're right. It may have ended up the same way as that tarantula…"

"Quite. No more pets, Sherlock. Not even sea monkeys."

"Well, I was actually considering the effect of a diluted form of ethanol on-"

"No."

"John?"

"No."

Sherlock pulled a disgruntled face for a few moments, before abruptly lightening. "Oh! John, I meant to show you something." Without further ado he retrieved his phone and tapped through it for a few seconds, before shoving the screen in front of the doctor.

John's jaw dropped, staring at the video Sherlock had pulled up on the Internet. Two good-looking young men were grinding against each other on a large bed, a mass of damp tanned limbs and thrusting bodies. A loud, masculine groan sounded from the phone, and John seized it, blushing ferociously, fumbling in a panicked haste to turn the volume off.

Sherlock smiled innocently, and pulled his phone back. Resting his chin in one hand, he watched the video pensively. "I've watched hours and hours of this stuff. Fascinating. Quite educational."

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock, if you _have_ to watch porn in a crowded pub, for God's sake at least put it on mute."

The doctor glanced around cautiously, but Sherlock's indiscretion seemed not to have been picked up by any of their neighbours.

"…Anyway, that…sort of thing isn't necessarily the best place to learn about…you know. It's not real."

"It's okay. I'm looking forward to the practical later," Sherlock smirked.

John sighed, willing the painful burn on his cheeks to fade, and his nerves to settle.

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"Obviously."

John cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "Much as I…" he scratched his ash-brown hair self-consciously.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"…As much as I…want to, I'm not going to rush it. Um…I'm going to try and make it…you know…"

He trailed off awkwardly, rubbing his face and wondering how he had ended up giving a sex pep talk to a male virgin in his mid-thirties. The last time he had done something similar was when he was an immature and extremely horny sixteen-year-old. Perhaps it was the true sincerity that he felt in the sentiment this time around, that made him feel so…uncertain of himself.

The detective grinned at him. "I trust you."

John laughed softly, his blushes not fading in the slightest, and he fiddled with a napkin on the table, tearing little strips off it.

"You know John, the Chinese have a saying," Sherlock began.

The doctor glanced up at him curiously, as Sherlock ruffled his own thick, dark hair thoughtfully.

"They say that if you save somebody's life, you are responsible for it forever."

"…That's beautiful."

"Mm. Are you up to it?"

John's eyes widened briefly, his face serious. "I will use every ounce of strength and breath in my body looking out for you until the day I die."

The detective's face looked stunned for a second at the doctor's impassioned declaration, then it crinkled into a knowing smile.

"I shall do my very best to reciprocate."

"Maybe try to just not get into so many life-threatening situations in the first place, okay?"

Sherlock sighed melodramatically. "Dull."

There was a moment's silence, then both broke into gusts of breathy giggles.


	9. I'm Ready Now

"Come on then," John grinned, once the giggles had subsided. Standing up, he made his way through the busy pub towards the stairs. He let out a faint groan of surprise when Sherlock grabbed his arm from behind and twisted him round roughly, giving him a devious smile, eyes narrowed, before taking his face firmly in his hands and kissing him hard.

Somewhere behind him, John heard a loud whoop from the table with the rowdy youths, followed by a yelled " _Get in there my son_!" after which the young lads cackled raucously.

Mortified, John managed to pull back, breathless, and stride away with as much dignity as he could muster. Sherlock grinned after him, shoving his hands in his pockets and following the little doctor calmly.

* * *

 

John hesitated upon returning to their room, licking his lips nervously and scratching his head. Sherlock shut the door behind him, putting his hands behind his back casually, and leaning back against the door with a grin on his face. He looked as tall and ethereal and lanky as ever, except with the tiniest little tummy from the double-cheesecake lunch. Glossy near-black curls hung into his striking grey-green eyes.

"Okay, let's make love now please."

Despite the freezing temperatures outside, the doctor was feeling unseasonably hot, and he cleared his throat. "Sherlock…hold your horses a bit, yeah?"

"But I'm ready _now_ ," Sherlock whined, pouting.

"Sherlock, do you really…are you _really_ attracted to me?"

The detective rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently. "Yes, John, now please take your clothes off and _do_ things to me."

John managed a weak grin and licked his lips once more. "Okay…You clear the bed," he ordered, somewhat shakily. Watching Sherlock merely move caused needles of pleasure to prick him all over and perfectly poison his system.

Sherlock obeyed eagerly, sweeping their bags from the cosy-looking bed, whilst John went to close the chintzy, floral curtains, pitching the room into surprising darkness. The room was silent apart from the faintest sound of hundreds of snowflakes padding onto the frozen window and settling there. John flicked on a bedside lamp to see Sherlock hastily opening his tight purple shirt by the dim amber light.

"Wait, Sherlock," John instructed hurriedly, striding up to him and staying the long, pale hands. The taller man met his dark-blue gaze inquisitively.

"Look…it's been a while for me," John warned, blushing faintly. "But I've wanted to do this to you for…well…a long time." He took a deep breath. "From the beginning, you were…um…well, you may not know it, but you're sex on legs," he confessed uneasily.

Sherlock smiled warmly, aware of the discomfort that John felt in admitting this. Saving him further embarrassment, he leaned down to press his lips lightly against John's ear, murmuring in that subsonic, gravelly baritone. "Kiss me."

John's eyes closed and he sighed gratefully, stretching a little to plant a series of small, wet pecks against the detective's solid cheekbone. Sherlock exhaled slowly, fingers tracing swirling patterns over the doctor's shoulders. Finding Sherlock's cute, cupid's-bow lips, John nibbled and kissed gently, hands grasping the angular face, fingertips rummaging through soft, dark curls. As he deepened the kiss, John felt Sherlock shift and sigh, his hands scooting down the doctor's back to his hips, pulling him close with a tentative bump.

John shivered, feeling Sherlock hardening against him, and urging him ever closer with strong hands. His breathing quickening, John's tongue mated sweetly with Sherlock's, their movements restrained and chaste - not yet urgent, but rapidly getting there.

The doctor's hands scraped down the front of Sherlock's tight shirt, smoothing around his waist, then back across his pectorals, before blindly starting to open his buttons. Halfway down, John pulled back with a smack of their lips, already looking sexed and needy. "Bed," he instructed quietly, and Sherlock obediently sat on the edge. Encouraging the detective to shift back a little, John got him to lie down across the bed, and straddled his lean thighs.

Sherlock lay calmly, his chest rising and falling only a little faster than usual, but his eyes were brighter and more vivid than the Northern Lights. John licked his lips, sighing helplessly at those incredible grey-green eyes. "…You haven't had… _any_ experience?" he asked, conscious of the taller man's impressive erection straining against black trousers just in front of him.

"None," Sherlock confirmed breathily, the faintest sheen on his sculpted cheekbones and the tip of his nose.

"I think… _you_ should be on top," John murmured, and Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

"You…know what that is, yeah?"

Sherlock frowned slightly and nodded again quickly, before clearing his throat. "John, have you done it both ways?" he asked.

"Yes," John replied, before un-popping the rest of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt.

"Which is best?" Sherlock continued, groaning as John peeled open the purple fabric and gazed at the gorgeous expanse of flawless white skin.

"They're both good," he replied, before seizing Sherlock's lips and nipping them sharply. Sherlock twitched and grunted faintly, pale hands rising and scrabbling at John's dark shirt, until the doctor started biting softly at his pale throat, and he lost track of any movements his body was attempting to make. He let out a positively orgasmic noise as John teasingly started sucking on his Adam's apple.

"Has anyone ever touched you like this," John whispered huskily, before kissing across the hard line of Sherlock's collarbone.

"N-No," Sherlock moaned in reply, exhaling hard and shuddering as John dusted a few fingers over his right nipple. The doctor pinched it lightly, using his lips and tongue to stimulate its partner.

"John," Sherlock gasped warningly, heaving out a ragged sigh as the doctor pulled back, and aligned himself over Sherlock's crotch, grinding hard against him.

"It's okay," John soothed, undoing his own shirt and pulling it off, flinging it onto the floor. Sherlock's eyes stared hungrily at his doctor's tanned, naked chest. Thoughtlessly, he reached out to smooth over the firm muscles, his cupid's-bow lips falling open.

"John," he whined, suddenly panting, a panicked look on his face. "John!"

John slowed down his grinding to a firm, teasing rhythm. "Okay?"

"I, I'm…oh God no," Sherlock heaved desperately, brows drawn together and face pained as he shuddered violently, hands squeezing John's thighs viciously tight through his jeans.

John realised too late what was happening, and stared as Sherlock suffered a sudden and violent orgasm, his mouth falling open, his eyes screwed shut, his hips bucking hard under John's weight and a ragged, deafening cry ripping from him.

The detective's head jerked back into the bed and he sobbed and writhed like a possessed victim undergoing an exorcism. John dumbly watched, stunned.

Finally Sherlock stilled, his skin damp and his eyes hazy and heavy, panting for breath. For the first time, John saw him blush – a stark red flush across his high cheekbones.

"…Sherlock…it's alright…" he attempted, licking his lips self-consciously.

The detective abruptly sat up, pushing John off of him, and scrambling from the bed, seizing his shirt, doing it up so fast that the buttons were in the wrong holes, grabbing his coat, and sweeping from the room like a dark ghost.


	10. Pout

John let out a long groan, rubbing a hand across his eyes and listening to Sherlock barrel down the wooden stairs outside their room, no doubt heading to the pub toilet to clean himself up.

Pulling his phone from his jeans, John tapped in a message, saved it to Drafts, then quickly made his way to the little bathroom adjoining the bedroom, that smelt, peculiarly, exactly the same way that all bathrooms smell on holiday, as if every single hotel and B 'n' B in the world was supplied with the same overly-perfumed soap, fresh towels and those bloody hot metal-pipe radiators.

Still semi-hard, he felt a little guilty as he locked the door and undid his jeans, tearing off a thick handful of toilet roll and kneeling on the white-tiled floor. It had been a shock, albeit an unsurprising one, that Sherlock had orgasmed prematurely. Trying to put Sherlock's obvious embarrassment out of his mind, at least for a few minutes, he took hold of himself, taking a deep breath, then recalling the mind-blowing sight of Sherlock climaxing just a few moments ago.

His right hand flat on the cold floor, his left hand taking hold of himself with practised skill, he started pulling at himself quickly, his body thrusting slightly despite having no receptacle to take it.

"Oh…fuck… _Sherlock_ ," John groaned, bracing himself against the chilled tiles, his left hand a blur, working at himself furiously. "Sh…Sherlock," he muttered, gasping, the word encouraging his dormant orgasm.

"…Fuck, fuck… _fuck_!" John seethed, shuddering hard. He scrabbled for the tissue paper but spilt over the cool tiles, tongue planted firmly against his top lip, eyes squeezed shut, hips pounding into thin air.

"…Fuck… _Sherlock_ …" he heaved as he rocked out his aftershocks, slowly recovering, breathing heavily. He cleaned up after himself and stood up on wobbly legs, sighing. Going back to the bedroom and putting on his shirt, he picked up his coat and done it up tightly, figuring that Sherlock had disappeared somewhere into the blizzard.

Retrieving his phone, he sent the saved message.

**Sherlock, don't be embarrassed. Where are you? - JW**

He waited several minutes, but got no reply. Irritably, he left the room and went down to the bar, giving a cursory glance around but seeing no sign of the detective. Pulling open the front door a few inches, he winced out at the snowstorm, resigning himself to being very cold, very soon. Stepping outside, the frozen air hit him hard, seizing his chest and burning his skin. Snow fell fast in a never-ending multitude of smothering white particles.

"Finished yourself off already? _Record_ timing," a deep, sarcastic voice spat loudly at him from nearby.

Sherlock's pale eyes were downcast, his high cheekbones still red, as if someone had stained them with some delightful scarlet ink. John blinked swirling, steadily-falling snowflakes from his eyes and sat down hesitantly at the snow-sodden, rough wooden table where Sherlock was huddled sulkily, arms crossed and mouth set in a definite pout.

"It was meant to be like the video," Sherlock grumbled, frowning deeply.

John was confused for a second, then realised Sherlock must have been referring to the porn video he had shown him earlier. Letting out a soft laugh, he replied gently, his lips a little numb from the frigid temperature.

"It can be. It _will_ be…Sherlock, it's no surprise...what happened. Sorry – I should have been a bit more…understanding." He licked his lips, tasting tasteless snowflakes, glancing up at the detective, whose dark hair, fair eyelashes, and long coat were heavily dusted with crisp, crystalline snow.

An unusually-large snowflake settled on the tip of Sherlock's nose, and before the taller man could raise a hand to swipe it away, John leaned across the rugged wooden table and kissed it away, grasping the detective's chilled hand as he did so.

Sherlock flinched, then strained a grin, eyes down.

"Sherlock…we have plenty of time. _Please_ don't feel bad." John lifted the cold white hand, pausing for just a moment, before kissing his way from hard knuckles to tough, calloused fingertips.

Even as the detective's pretty pink cupid's-bow mouth falsified a pout, his grey-green eyes shone with honest thrill.

"…Would you…" Sherlock began, clearing his throat, and folding up his snow-soaked coat collar to shield his pale neck, before fixing his bright gaze upon his doctor.

John smirked, eyeing the detective and interrupting him. "Give me thirty seconds, and then I'll have a go at deducing you." He promptly leaned across the rough table, seized Sherlock's lips with his own, and nibbled possessively, his hands grasping through the wet, flattened, near-black curls.

Sherlock sighed disappointedly as John pulled away, his dark-blue eyes intense, and his clown-like grin evident.

"I'm guessing you want to try again?"

Sherlock grinned happily, the sentiment crinkling his pale, angular face.

"Take me anywhere you want, John."


	11. Practical

Sherlock ruffled both hands through his wet, dark curls as they re-entered the pub, flurries of crisp snow flying everywhere before melting into the floor. Licking his cupid's-bow lips, Sherlock leant down to John conspiratorially as the door closed behind them.

"How long does it take?"

The doctor frowned in confusion, pulling off his damp coat.

"What?"

"To get...back…to be…"

"Oh," John grinned. "Depends. Let's give it half an hour, though. Beer?"

"I've never had beer," Sherlock replied thoughtfully, shrugging off his long, wet coat and folding it in his arms.

"First time for everything," John shrugged, then their eyes met knowingly, and they both giggled heartily.

* * *

 

An hour later, Sherlock was a little giggly on a few pints of beer. John felt slightly guilty about letting him get tipsy, but he figured it would be conducive to Sherlock…lasting a little longer. John hadn't planned it, but after his first pint, Sherlock had become quite enamoured with the beer.

"Did you know _he's_ gay?" Sherlock asked loudly and chuckling, pointing at one of the rowdy lads a couple of tables away.

"Sherlock, shh," John grinned, pushing his fingertip against the detective's wonderfully curved lips. Sherlock grinned, his face crinkling sweetly, and then promptly took John's finger into his mouth, sucking hard, his sculptured cheeks hollowing.

Giggling, John pulled his finger back, delighting in Sherlock's matching honest amusement, his baritone laugh reverberating through the pub.

"Guess you're nearly ready," John grinned, sipping his own beer.

"God John, I'm ready," Sherlock grinned, eyes hazy and happy as he downed the last of his last pint.

John lowered his voice, fingers fiddling with his half-full glass. "When we're done here…we'll…you'll be on top. It'll all be fine," he promised quietly.

Sherlock's mouth twitched into the faintest smile. "Thankyou." His sharp grey-green eyes flicking across the cosy, warm room, he smirked.

"So," John began, nodding towards the young man Sherlock had pointed out. "What was it? The tinted eyelashes, taurine cream, those tired clubber's eyes?"

The detective looked at him sharply. "You remember that?"

"Anything you say is worth remembering. At least, you know, when it's not an insult directed at me," John grinned.

Sherlock smiled warmly, then frowned impatiently at John's half-full glass. "Hurry up."

"Yes sir," the doctor replied, raising the glass to his mouth. Sherlock's eyes narrowed briefly as he considered the peculiar effect those two simple words had had on him. He filed it away for further pondering.

Sherlock's fingers were tapping on the hardwood table by the time John finished his beer, at which point he seized his arm and dragged him unceremoniously from the bar.

* * *

 

John found himself pushed playfully against the door once they were back in their room, and kissed thoroughly, Sherlock wasting no time in fumbling open the doctor's shirt, and tearing it off, before stripping away his own. The taller man pressed their bare chests together, sighing with pleasure. The room was still lit by the dim little table lamp, the doctor hoping that the darker, more sultry atmosphere would help put Sherlock at ease.

John leant harder up into the kiss, tongue swiping aggressively against Sherlock's, and the detective thumped his hips against the doctor's, both huffing small, gasping laughs.

The shorter man pushed Sherlock away gently, leading him back to the bed, mouths still locked, kisses loud and wet in the quiet, cosy room. He picked open Sherlock's trousers and palmed him firmly, before pulling down his waistband. Spreading his hand flat across the front of Sherlock's underwear, he grinned smugly into the kiss, finding the fabric already damp.

John ran his fingers through the cool, dark curls, then down to the bare milky-white shoulders, encouraging him to lay down. Sherlock finally broke the kiss, gasping, his soft near-black hair flattening against the pillow. His greedy long fingers yanked open the fly of John's jeans and pushed inside, groping eagerly. Flinching a little at the enthusiastic roughness, John stilled Sherlock's blue-veined wrist, then leaned down and began nibbling at the detective's right nipple.

Sherlock shivered and sighed raggedly, licking his lips. "John," he warned, grey-green eyes clouded. John pulled back again from the apparently super-sensitive nub, running a hand down Sherlock's smooth, soft stomach, teasing down the waistband of his trousers and underwear.

Sherlock let out a faint noise of self-consciousness, looking away. Moving to kneel beside the detective, the doctor commenced to strip him completely. He couldn't help but stare. The fact that he had already surmised was now confirmed – Sherlock was a _big_ boy, and leaking steadily. He felt a sudden and random urge to take it into his mouth, feel its weight and heat and taste, but he managed to resist. Plenty of time for that. Besides, Sherlock probably wouldn't last more than a minute.

He pulled down his own jeans and boxers, kicking off shoes and socks, and laying gently upon the detective, whose high cheekbones were stained red, eyes averted.

"Is everything okay Sherlock?" John whispered, pecking the corner of the delicious curved lips repeatedly. He felt the detective nod hastily and huff out a shaky exhale.

"Okay," John soothed, kissing the sculptured, blush-burnt cheek fondly. "Let's swap round."

Sherlock rolled him slightly clumsily, glancing down between them at John's shaft that was hot and solid against his stomach. He felt a sudden and random urge to take it into his mouth, feel its weight and heat and taste, but he managed to resist. Plenty of time for that. Besides, he wanted – _needed_ to take John before he was overwhelmed.

John grinned, stroking Sherlock's thick dark hair, watching the thoughts buzz across those wide, ethereal eyes.

"Lube, Sherlock," he reminded him, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie. The detective nodded quickly, rummaging in his bag of tricks beside the bed and pulling out a few of the bottles in there, pushing them hopefully into John's line of sight. The doctor picked one and gave it to Sherlock, who opened it and applied it to his shaft liberally, before trying to spread John's legs, his face heated and his breathing rapid.

"Sherlock… _Sherlock_ ," John insisted gently. "Fingers first."

The detective swallowed and nodded mutely, applying the silky liquid to his fingers, both hands trembling conspicuously. He slowly pushed his index finger inside the doctor, listening to John sigh faintly. John made a slight noise, eyes lightly closed and face calm, and lifted two of his fingers in an upward crook. "Like that," he instructed huskily.

Sherlock obeyed, pulling out, then crooking two fingers deep inside the doctor, amazed by the crushingly-tight body heat around him, numbing his joints. He thrust experimentally, and John jerked out a sharp moan, his own hands blindly going to his own shaft and rubbing slowly.

" _That's_ it," John reassured him breathlessly. "God, Sherlock…harder… _please_."

Encouraged, Sherlock pounded his fingers harder and faster, biting his bottom lip. Though his fingertips were de-sensitised and calloused from years of abuse from violin strings, he could tell John had no complaints. The doctor's face was glowing, and his hands blundered over himself as his hips started to rock against Sherlock's solid knuckles.

The detective only realised he was dripping onto the bed when John nodded and beseeched him insistently. " _Now_ , come on."

Sherlock needed no second bidding, and lifted John's hips high, kneeling between his thighs and glancing down to guide himself. Shaking with excitement, he slowly forced himself past the brutally tight, blood-hot muscle.

He gulped and had to expend considerable effort to bury himself fully, feeling John's body clamp possessively around him. Sobbing, his grey-green eyes opened weakly, and he fought to banish the climax that suddenly threatened.

"Don't, Sherlock…not yet," John groaned, his expression tiredly blissful. The detective nodded in acquiescence, licking his top lip which was damp with sweat. "Are you close?" John asked, and Sherlock murmured affirmatively, breathing hard. "Okay," the doctor managed, trying to stay calm. "Let me get there."

He immediately seized himself in his left hand and tugged at himself viciously, his fist barely visible, the tiny slick sounds mingling with those of Sherlock as he allowed himself to make the smallest thrusts in and out of John.

The doctor squeezed his thighs around Sherlock's waist, a grating, throaty cry sounding loudly from him. " _Now, now,_ " he heaved, damp body writhing rhythmically.

Sherlock thrust with such fervour that he slipped out, and John yowled in frustration, the detective hastily re-inserting himself then pounding away, hands flat either side of John's waist, his dark curls sticking wetly to his forehead, his muscles sizzling with pained effort.

John's eyes finally opened, and he sobbed with wretched delight as he tilted his head and noted the large mirror on the desk behind the bed. He shuddered helplessly, so close, watching the long, lean reflection of Sherlock thudding noisily, gracelessly into him.

Both men let out peculiar, strangled wails as Sherlock's mobile started ringing from his trouser pocket, nearby on the bed. It was the ringtone assigned to Mycroft. Before John could protest, Sherlock had seized the phone in one wet hand and answered it, his jade eyes alive with mischief and a smirk on his lips, even as he continued pounding John.

"Mycroft," he growled in his guttural baritone voice. "This…better be important…I'm having…sex with John," he gasped, before dropping the live phone by John's face, digging his long fingers into John's hips, and pistoning into him with as much force as he could manage, his damp skin slapping noisily against the doctor's, his chest heaving with breathy laughs infected with crippling pleasure.

John winced in agonising ecstasy, slamming a hand across his own mouth in an effort to silence himself, but his shattering climax rocked him mercilessly, and his muffled scream tore deafeningly from him, his whole body jerking violently. Sherlock bit his lip, drawing blood that trickled swiftly down his chin, his eyes screwed tightly shut, and he yelped and whined desperately as he thudded out his orgasm inside John.

"Oh, _God_ ," the detective begged vaguely, slipping out from John and collapsing onto weak knees, thighs twitching, and still spurting hard. The doctor shivered and panted out his aftershocks dazedly.

Sherlock reached his phone, listened for a second to the furious diatribe of his smarmy brother on the other end, then terminated the call, chucking the mobile on the floor, gazing down at himself, and the weakening spurts of warm seed that were soaking the duvet and his own thighs.

John ran a wet forearm over his head, blowing out a hard exhale, eyes slowly opening. He grinned weakly at the detective, who looked utterly spent and quite literally drained.

"You look like you've just been shagged to oblivion."

"Nice deduction," Sherlock replied groggily, grinning warmly.


	12. Peace

"Still can't believe your ringtone for Mycroft is 'Killer Queen,'" John grinned, before letting out a contented, happy sigh. He stretched his arms and heard his elbows pop satisfyingly. Glancing at the slightly stoned-looking Sherlock, he winced playfully. "More than that, I can't believe you let us just orgasm down the phone to your brother."

"Serves him right for being annoying. I _told_ him we were on holiday," the taller man shrugged, his deep voice a little cracked, as he stood up on sore legs and tried to figure out where to start with the cleaning up.

"Should have put towels down. You could impregnate half of England with that, Sherlock," he teased, nodding at the considerable mess on the bed and on Sherlock's body, and the detective blushed faintly, smiling.

"You're bleeding by the way," John commented, pointing at the drying scarlet liquid on Sherlock's bottom lip and chin, which had also smeared onto his front teeth in a faint pinkish hue. The detective wiped his hard knuckles across his face and looked down at the bright red blood in surprise.

"Shower," John instructed, smiling, going to the bathroom and beginning to run the steamy water.

Sherlock followed, grimacing at the glue-like consistency of the cool seed on his body, though oddly, finding himself feeling a lot less self-conscious than earlier.

* * *

 

"I need a cigarette," Sherlock muttered after the shower, and after John had replaced the covers on the bed and put his boxers back on. The shower had been surprisingly chaste, with just a few snatched smooches and pecks under the wonderfully hot water.

"I bet you do," John grinned, towelling off his wet, ash-brown hair and settling onto the bed, sighing languorously. "I think even _I_ need one."

Sherlock snuggled up tight against him in just his underwear, shivering slightly. John realised that the detective showed a remarkable resemblance to a greyhound he used to own, in that inexplicably, he could just as easily manage to spread himself over a whole double bed, or become very compact, as Sherlock was now. John eased the duvet from underneath them both and swamped them in the heavy, sweet-smelling covers. In the rapidly body-heated gloom underneath them, Sherlock let out a long, blissful groan, eyes shut lightly.

"Don't tell me you're going to actually sleep," The doctor asked, amused, as he too wriggled down into the dim, airless heat under the covers, feeling the deep rumble of Sherlock's affirmative noise vibrate through the mattress. Plumping the pillows with finality under his head, he grinned as he hesitantly pushed a hand into Sherlock's cool, damp curls and rummaged through them gently. A faint, hitched sigh confirmed the detective's pleasure at this, as did the long, pale hand that snaked to rest possessively on John's bare chest.

"How's your lip?" he asked quietly, pulling delicately at Sherlock's soft curls to straighten them, and then watching them bounce back into corkscrews.

"Mm," came a baritone grunt, and Sherlock hinted none too subtly to John to be quiet by pushing a fingertip against his thin lips, before settling back to selfishly plant his hand on John's lean stomach. The doctor grinned, shutting up, still fiddling fondly with the detective's thick hair. He lay thoughtfully, gazing around the low-lit room, the little lamp still oozing a warm orange glow. It was a matter of minutes before he felt the subsonic vibrations through the mattress once more, and he realised, with some astonishment, that Sherlock was making a noise that could only be described as purring. His pale eyelids flickered lightly, and his fingertips twitched faintly on John's abdomen.

On the few occasions that John had known Sherlock to sleep properly, he slept like the dead. He recalled being woken at about midnight recently, when the detective, having lit in his room a dozen of the fat church candles he had become obsessed with, fell asleep while reading. The smoke detector directly above Sherlock's bed had squealed into frantic and deafening life, and by the time a very disgruntled John had grumbled his way to the detective's room, there was movement from Mrs. Hudson downstairs as well.

John had found Sherlock fast asleep, breathing peacefully, his hands curled near his mouth on the pillow, fingers resting against his own lips. Meanwhile, seven feet above, the ear-piercing smoke alarm screamed like an air raid siren.

Now, he was happy to join Sherlock in a snooze. Leaving Sherlock's wonderfully tactile curls alone, he gently hooked an arm around his waist, and closed his eyes with a comforted sigh, lulled to sleep by the broken howls of the frigid wind outside.


	13. Hangman

_The surgeon stood tall and regal, snapping on latex gloves. They melded to long fingers like a second skin._

_Oh, fuck, it's Sherlock. Sherlock in scrubs. Fucking hell._

_The room is sterile, cold, grey…there's a body on the slab. Oh, it's me. I'm watching myself._

_I… I know I'm asleep. Don't quite want to wake up yet though._

_Sherlock shrugged his green scrubs into a more comfortable position, eyes cool and calm, and adjusting the flimsy mask over his sculptured jaw._

_Fuck, he looks stunning. Always had a thing for scrubs…_

_He's got a scalpel…he's opened my hand…he's carving a heart on my palm…it doesn't hurt…_

John gasped into sudden wakefulness, wincing, then widening his eyes as he realised Sherlock was staring at him intently, his cat-like, jade-green eyes only a few inches away. The detective was doodling a long pale finger around John's open palm.

"Fascinating," Sherlock murmured deeply, grinning, and then planting a firm, wet kiss on John's lips.

"…You okay?" John asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes, then watching as Sherlock traced the lines and bumps of his doctor's smaller hand intently, his fingertips calloused, but tender in their movements.

"Been awake a while. I think it's about eight. You know, they say that when you can't sleep, it's because you're awake in someone else's dreams."

"I don't know where you get this new-age claptrap, but I _do_ like it," John grinned, taking Sherlock's long fingers in his own and squeezing. It had been at least a year since he had shared a bed with anyone, and he realised now that the delightful body-heated snugness and the tickly teasing touches of skin and hair were things that he had sorely missed. Indulging himself, he pushed his fingers into Sherlock's delightfully soft dark hair.

"Oh, that reminds me," the detective suddenly announced, rolling over and pulling open the bedside table drawer. Taking out a small, lethally-sharp knife with a beautiful bone handle, he held it in front of his doctor, grinning.

"…Sherlock?" John asked nervously, eyeing the gleaming metal blade.

"You can be my Delilah," Sherlock smiled, taking one of his own curls in his fingers and snicking it off cleanly with the knife, offering the glossy near-black lock to John.

John was speechless. Looking down at the dark curl, he took it in his hand, not quite understanding what had just happened.

"You're the only person I would allow to make me weak," Sherlock grinned, his jade-green eyes bright and happy.

"I…thankyou," John murmured uncertainly. "…I make you…weak?"

"Infinitely," Sherlock grinned.

John honestly didn't know what to say.

The detective beamed at him proudly.

The poor doctor put the lock of hair on the table beside him and cleared his throat awkwardly. "…Sherlock…I-"

He was abruptly silenced with a hard, wet kiss.

"Let's make love again, please."

"…You're going to be insatiable from now on, aren't you?" John grinned.

"Indeed."

"I'm a bit…stale, maybe I should…" John attempted, gesturing vaguely at his mouth, then in the direction of the bathroom. Sherlock let out a grunt that could have meant anything, then seized his mouth, rolling on top of him and kissing furiously.

The doctor managed to fend him off long enough to gasp, "On your back."

Sherlock relented with a pout, shifting off of John and simultaneously pulling the doctor to straddle him.

"I'm going to…take you in my mouth, okay?" John asked quietly, and Sherlock immediately tremored with anticipation, nodding eagerly, his dark curls bouncing with the movement.

The doctor eased down Sherlock's underwear and took him in hand, caressing him slowly. The detective let out a sigh of pure pleasure, closing his grey-green eyes. John stroked him firmly until Sherlock was fully hard, and twitching bodily, his voice reduced to a deep, broken, repetitive aria.

John eyed Sherlock's shaft briefly, swallowing nervously, before carefully taking his tip into his mouth, sucking gently. It had been a long time since he had given a blowjob, and he suspected he would be even worse at it now than he was those three years ago. The detective certainly was well-endowed. No way would he be able to take his whole length into his throat without suffocating. Still, that would be as good a mode of death as any…

"John…please…stop thinking," Sherlock groaned, patting his doctor's head distractedly.

Grinning, John bit his lip to try and stem the giggles that were occupying his mouth. He took Sherlock's base in his left hand and tugged lightly, in time with the firm, wet, bobbing rhythm he started with his lips and throat.

Three minutes passed, with John delighting at the deep, strangled noises Sherlock was making, those long fingers yanking desperately at his short hair, the warm sweat on the detective's thighs.

"Oh… _John_ , you… _you_ …" Sherlock seethed, hips pushing helplessly towards his doctor. Twitching and gasping, the detective struggled against his impending climax. "I… _John_ …I…!"

John was quite prepared when Sherlock came, managing to swallow everything, gulping awkwardly. Sherlock yelled violently, rocking out his orgasm, writhing beautifully, then slowly shuddering into peace, breathing hard. There was a minute of silence, then…

"…Thankyou, John."

John grinned at Sherlock once the detective had recovered, quite prepared to ignore his own arousal until Sherlock was ready to reciprocate.

"Why did you bring a knife, anyway?"

"In case of emergencies."

"What kind of emergencies?"

"The kind of emergencies that require the availability of a knife, obviously."

"…Obviously."

Sherlock stood up with a groan, going to the window and peering out behind the curtains. His long, lean body looked ethereally beautiful in the gloom.

A crinkly grin lit the detective's pale face.

"What's up?" John asked, stretching languidly.

"Look."

John joined him at the window, staring out into the inky black night, lit only by the orange glow from the windows of the pub and a few cottages along the street. The country sky was jet-black and glittered delightfully with stars, and the rural street was totally blanketed in thick, white snow.

"Ah, nice!" John exclaimed, grinning – a typically English response to the simple sight of settled snow. They both gazed out at the wintry scene, until Sherlock's mobile rang once more. Mycroft again. Before the detective could respond, John grabbed the phone himself and answered breathlessly.

"Mycroft – I am so, _so_ sorry about earlier – Sherlock was being…well, Sherlock, and-"

"Doctor Watson," the elder Holmes brother interrupted curtly, "leaving aside the incident in question, it is imperative that I talk to my brother immediately. A grave situation has arisen." John realised that Mycroft's usually unctuous voice sounded rattled and strained.

John wordlessly passed the phone to Sherlock. Frowning curiously, the detective accepted.

"Sherlock…I must be concise. I'm afraid there has been a… _compromise_ …in surveillance. The details are not important, however, you are in danger. There has been a murder in central London, a brutal one – with a message directed at you."

Sherlock grinned cheerfully at John, giving him a thumb's-up and mouthing the word 'Murder!' happily.

Mycroft continued in his usual drawl, though he was clearly unsettled. "I'm sending you a photograph of the body. A young male police officer, subject to a vicious attack. The mortician stopped counting after the first hundred stab-wounds. The face was also mutilated, almost beyond recognition. It seems the initial assault took place this morning – the body was deposited outside your flat. The…message was carved into the back of the victim. There was a 'hangman' game depicted – sliced into the skin. A Cumbrian postcard was stuffed into the throat of the victim. We have reason to believe that…James Moriarty is responsible. Be careful, brother."

Without any further conversation, Mycroft ended the call. Sherlock peered down at his phone as a picture message appeared, and he tilted his head like a curious puppy as he viewed the sharp image of the mutilated police officer's back, at the skin saturated in blood, the congealed, brown-red gobbets that outlined the message meant for him.

It was a crude image of the Hangman game – the stick figure was hanging from a bloodied gibbet. The mystery word was eight letters long, the lines for the missing letters scored in devastatingly deep cuts. Below the figure, every letter in the alphabet had been written and then crossed out – every letter, that is, except the eight that made up Sherlock's name.

The detective looked up at his doctor fondly.

"The game is on," Sherlock grinned.


	14. Domestic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A JohnLock domestic and angry sexytimes :P

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock," John exclaimed as he grabbed the phone and stared down at the horrific image. He shook his head mutely, shifting his gaze to the detective in the warm darkness, who stared through the thin crack in the curtains at the blanketed snow outside. The small table lamp glowed with an increasingly feeble, dark-orange ambience, painting Sherlock's near-naked, lean body beautifully.

".. _Brilliant_ ," Sherlock moaned deeply, his face a happy tapestry of bright-eyed glee and pink-cheeked excitement, his long white fingers steepled under his chin.

"Sherlock, for _fuck's_ sake!" John exclaimed suddenly, his dark-blue eyes angry. "I _know_ you can't help it, but…how can you…" he sighed in frustration before continuing in a high-pitched tone. "How can this not affect you _at all_? Every single time, it's the same!"

Sherlock stared at him, shrugging, a little nonplussed. He knew that generally, John was a placid creature, but he had a fiery side, and could snap at a moment's notice like a little terrier – particularly when he himself was involved. But by now, he imagined John would have been used to his (admittedly indifferent) attitude to crime scenes and victims. "I don't know. You know what I'm like, John."

John grimaced and spat out his reply with surprising bitterness, his throat tight and his voice strained. "And if it was me? In that picture? If _I'd_ been found carved to pieces just to get your attention? What would it be? 'Brilliant? Genius? Wonderful?'"

Sherlock's face darkened immediately, his eyes intensely dangerous. "Don't, John," he murmured warningly.

"Don't what?" John retorted angrily. "It's true, isn't it? Some people see a dead body as less than human, as a specimen. But you don't even wait _that_ long, do you? They're specimens from the day they're born!"

His temper rising, Sherlock shoved John hard, the doctor landing sprawled on his back across the cool bed; the detective immediately leaped on him and pinned his wrists above his head with a shockingly strong grip, his narrowed eyes a perilous icy-green. His breathing had grown harder, matching John's, who struggled belligerently, glaring up at Sherlock, whose pale face with angry red blotches on his cheeks was just inches away.

Forcibly, Sherlock leaned even more of his heavy weight onto John's wrists, feeling the doctor's pulse throb hotly under his skin and hearing the smaller man groan. Stubbornly, John wriggled more, his bare chest rising and falling fast, but Sherlock's strength and size was superior.

Frowning determinedly as he restrained his writhing doctor, Sherlock leaned even further down, breathing heavily, his exhales hot and fast against the smaller man's lips. "John, _never_ assume you're on the same level as everybody else. And never, _ever_ make light of my feelings for you." His voice was intensely deep, a mere rumble that the smaller man felt as well as heard.

John briefly ceased fighting his incarceration beneath Sherlock's long body and under his strong hands. There was a moment of hot, climactic tension, their burning eyes challenging each other's in the dark. Then, still breathless, still riled, and with his naturally eager acceptance of combat, John lifted his head quickly and gave the detective a hard, biting kiss. Sherlock gave a startled moan, and then bit back, unconsciously lowering his body to grind desperately against John's.

Gasping with sudden pain and pleasure and frustration and need, John's fingers curled reflexively in their blood-hot prison, his hips rising to meet Sherlock's and grind against them as hard as he could.

Sherlock let out a baritone cry, his dark wild locks curling into his dilated eyes, and bit John's throat savagely, the doctor silent for a few strained seconds, then letting out a strangled moan of illicit delight.

One-handedly, Sherlock frantically nudged down his and John's underwear, still managing to restrain the doctor, who was gasping obscenely loudly in the warm gloom of their quiet room. It was as thick and sweet and devastating as drowning in honey – the shared, unspoken need to fuck, _Right_ Now.

"Sherlock," came the hoarse groan, as John struggled violently against Sherlock's restraining hand, which was now over-heated and damp. The detective sucked hard at the small wound on John's neck, breathing wheezily through his nose, his free hand blundering between their legs, taking them both in hand at once and rubbing quickly, eliciting a helpless shudder and gasp from the doctor.

Sherlock's cool, thick hair tickled the smaller man's face as the detective sucked noisily at his throat, the sting of the bite being replaced by a numb, flooding ache. The bulb in the little lamp finally died and they both keened out wordless noises of excitement at the sudden near-pitch darkness, the dizzying thrill of blind, heated contact and inescapable sounds and scents.

They were both soon wet and dripping copiously, and Sherlock finally released John's wrists, quickly and sloppily transferring his lips to the doctor's, and kissing him with a furious, messy passion, groaning into his mouth. Their tongues swiped and fought viciously, wetting lips and chins indiscriminately in the dizzying dark.

The hot night air smelt of sweat and semen and citrus shampoo, and it was glorious. John's hands went shakily to Sherlock's strong shoulders, which were warm and damp with effort, and he squeezed encouragingly, pulling away from the detective's aggressive mouth to gasp out, " _Now_ , Sherlock…"

The taller man rumbled out an affirmative, subsonic noise, pulled back, yanked away John's underwear completely, and spread his legs. Without a word, he got onto his knees, and hoisted John's heavy hips onto his lap, the doctor's thighs either side of his waist. He took himself in hand, his palm and fingers slipping wetly on his shaft, and eased himself with shallow, laboured breaths. Closing his eyes to better concentrate on what he was doing in the complete darkness, he slowly pushed forward, breaching John's incredibly tight, blood-hot body.

John groaned sharply, his left hand moving to tug at himself firmly and rhythmically, his head tilting back against the bed.

"… _Go on_ ," he murmured into the dark, hearing Sherlock's hitched, blissful sigh.

Sherlock pushed in a little more - the doctor flinched at the dull pain, sighing loudly.

The detective paused for a few breathless seconds, quivering bodily, and spoke gratingly in the dark, his deep voice impossibly low. "Can I?"

" _Now_ ," John repeated in a guttural voice, tightening himself around Sherlock invitingly.

The dark-haired detective sighed gratefully, and with a forceful groan, began slamming into John as hard and fast as he could, their flesh slapping out a noisy, wet, frantic soundtrack. The doctor's voice seethed out in a helpless, repetitive gasp, while Sherlock grunted uncontrollably with every violent thrust.

Their bodies pounded together viciously hard and fast, the bed complaining loudly with sharp squeaks and bumps.

Swallowing hard, grasping fruitlessly at Sherlock's wet back and arms, John choked and shuddered, eyes squeezing tight, crushed by the taller man's violently thrusting weight. A few heaving exhales in the hot darkness signified a warning, and John came, yelling deafeningly, scratching red lines across Sherlock's back with wet fingers, raking prizes of damp skin under his nails.

Sherlock let out a loud, beautiful, rapturous noise as he climaxed, thudding into John in the dark, his hips pistoning viciously into his doctor. His damp dark curls hanging in his eyes, he trembled and coughed out a cry of disbelief, punching out his hot, wet aftershocks inside his doctor.

* * *

 

A few minutes later, they had both come down from that irreplaceable high, and were both sticky and tired on the damp bed, chests still heaving, pulses throbbing hotly, skin slick and warm and wet.

Blowing out a vast exhale, John got up on shivery legs, yanked open the curtains, shedding some light into the room, then turned his dark-blue eyes to Sherlock, who lay boneless on the bed, his green-grey eyes drunken and dark.

Clearing his throat, John grinned warmly, stroking Sherlock's damp, wet curls. Sherlock laughed his deep, reverberating laugh, then with some effort and a groan, stood up and took John into his arms tightly.

The doctor's clown-like smile lit his face in the cold light from the window.

"Forgot the bloody towels again."


	15. Threat

Sherlock let out a long, gusty sigh, and rested his forearms on John's shoulders, planting his chin on the top of the doctor's head and closing his eyes lightly. John let out a vaguely disgruntled noise at being used for a chinrest, though he was smiling to himself. Contentedly, he ran his hands over Sherlock's damp, warm back.

The detective hissed in pain and tensed up, and John immediately pulled back and abruptly turned Sherlock round. The red scratches that his own nails had inflicted were quite heavily smudged with blood.

" _Shit_ , Sherlock, I'm so sorry," he gasped, his imploring gaze going to the detective's face, which crinkled in a smile, though he winced noticeably.

"It's okay. _Doctor_ ," he hinted, grinning. John glanced down at his fingernails, which were compacted with dark red drying blood.

"I didn't know," he muttered, looking aghast.

"I said it's okay, John," Sherlock smiled, patting John's head fondly. "Are you…alright?" The detective asked quietly, his grey-green eyes anxious.

"I don't know," John answered honestly. "I'll be right back." He planted a quick, soft kiss to Sherlock's baby-pink lips, then retreated quickly to the bathroom, feeling stinging and sore.

He soon discovered he too was bleeding lightly, but he couldn't help laughing softly to himself. The bite on his neck was rapidly bruising, too.

"…John?" Sherlock's voice sounded worriedly from beyond the door.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John reassured him, cleaning himself up.

"…Sorry?" came the tentative apology.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. It was worth it," John grinned, emerging once more and putting his underwear back on.

The tall detective, back in his boxers, grasped John's shoulders gently and kissed him, before asking in his rumbling baritone, "Ready to go again?"

John's mouth fell open and he stared in disbelief at Sherlock, before connecting with the mischievous spark in the younger man's grey-green eyes and realised he was kidding. Nevertheless, Sherlock curiously palmed John, and the doctor flinched, sighing hard.

"God, Sherlock, don't," he groaned. "And don't try and distract me. We have a massive problem here."

He extricated himself from Sherlock's grip and went to his bag, retrieving his pistol and satisfying himself that the gun was fully loaded and ready to shoot.

"John?" came the petulant query, as Sherlock approached him again, buried his face into the back of John's neck and nibbled eagerly. The doctor appreciated the attention, until he felt the taller man's hard-on nudging against him.

"Sherlock, you cannot be serious," John muttered, turning round abruptly and taking the detective's angular, pale face in his hands.

"I'm making up for lost time," Sherlock shrugged with an innocent smile.

"If you don't behave I'm going to tie you down and roger you until you wish you didn't have a dick. Understand?"

Sherlock, of course, was absolutely thrilled at this. "John…" he rumbled deeply, before kissing his doctor hard.

John managed to pull away for a second, placing steadying fingers on Sherlock's baby-pink lips. "Close your eyes," he instructed firmly.

Sherlock grinned his crinkly grin, closing his eyes obediently.

Quietly going to the window, John prised it open and scooped up a large handful of the freezing settled snow on the ledge.

Making his way back to Sherlock, he tugged open the detective's boxers, and unceremoniously dumped the wet, freezing snow inside.

Downstairs in the pub, there was a notable lull in proceedings at the coarse, deep yell that reverberated through the establishment.

* * *

 

"…You are in unbelievably huge amounts of trouble, Doctor Watson," Sherlock informed him darkly as he dried himself off. John was about to shrug nonchalantly, when he saw the black, dangerous look in the detective's pale eyes and wondered if he was actually going to get a punch in the face.

Sherlock saw his shock and twitched a grin to let him know he wasn't going to hurt him. Not right then, anyway. He went calmly to his overnight bag and after rummaging around in it, pulled out a pair of gleaming metal handcuffs.

John stared and moved closer to examine them. They definitely weren't the typical tacky sex-shop kind.

"Sherlock…those are police issue handcuffs…"

"I…borrowed them."

"You stole them."

"Sort of."

John gave him his Fatherly Disapproval Look, which rolled over the unrepentant Sherlock like water off a duck's back.

"Come on John, get dressed. We're going out."

"Out where?" the doctor asked incredulously.

"To get the lay of the land, of course. It'll be useful. Unless you'd rather stay cooped up in here."

"Actually, that's exactly what I want," John replied, raising his eyebrow suggestively.

Sherlock grinned. "When we return. And we'll get dinner too."

"Fine. But I'm packing," John said calmly.

Sherlock's face fell, he looked wounded, and panic flitted across his eyes.

"What for?" he asked in a small voice.

"No, Sherlock. Packing _heat_. Taking my gun," he said, laughing fondly.

"Oh. Good," the brunette replied, though there was still a tiny bit of suspicion in his laser-like gaze.

John quickly went to him, kissed him on the cheek, then went to find his clothes and retrieve his gun.

Sherlock put on his sleek purple shirt and black trousers, retrieving his knife from the drawer surreptitiously.

A few minutes later, they were fully clothed, carrying their heavy coats, and locking their door behind them, Sherlock palming the blade in his coat pocket to reassure himself.

The taller man caught up to John on the stairs and took his hand tightly, pulling him down into the pub once more. John tried half-heartedly to tug his hand away, still not comfortable with public displays of affection, but the detective's grip was brutally tight, and besides, nobody paid them any attention. The taller man's pale eyes swept quickly over the cosy room, taking in everything in seconds. The shining brass antiques, mounted deer heads, smoke-mottled paintings, deep red brick and rich dark-wood furniture, the relaxed patrons, the put-upon staff, the delightfully-searing temperature, the indulgent scents of fresh-cooked hot food and the buzz and chatter and mumble of a dozen conversations.

When he was satisfied, he frustratedly blinked away the ebony curls that had fallen into his grey-green eyes, and he pulled John over to the booth that they had occupied earlier. Seating opposite his doctor, Sherlock gazed into the nearby fireplace that spat and crackled and blasted a wonderful heat.

John frowned at him curiously, before eyeing the menu. Without looking up, he asked casually, "Do you think-"

"Constantly."

"No…Sherlock…do you ever think-"

"All the time."

John glared at him stubbornly, before going back to the menu. He wasn't going to ask again, and Sherlock equally was quite happy to be intransigent and watch John pout. Smiling warmly at his tight-lipped partner, Sherlock planted his chin in one long, pale hand and gazed wistfully at the dessert section on the back of the menu.

"Sherlock, I haven't seen you eat anything except cake for the last two weeks. For God's sake, have something hot and savoury. Like…sausage and mash," John shrugged, pointing at the entry on the pub's menu.

Sherlock flipped back to the main section, cat-like eyes wide, and grinned his crinkly honest grin, before sighing. "I _love_ sausage and mash."

John couldn't hide his surprise, his dark-blue eyes wide. Sherlock had never claimed to 'love' anything, especially not a food item. And _especially_ something that wasn't jam-packed with sugar.

"Well…go for it, then," he suggested, as he continued to scan the choices for himself.

* * *

 

They were soon eating hungrily, and while John demolished his fare politely, he couldn't help but glance up and frown at Sherlock, who was spearing each whole sausage on his fork, dripping with hot gravy, biting into the tip slowly, and chewing as if eating manna from heaven, the occasional appreciating groan rumbling from him.

John decided not to chide him as he wasn't sure whether he was actually doing it on purpose to distract him.

Sherlock, of course, was.

* * *

 

Once they had finished eating and digested a little, they both made the move to exit the pub and pursue Sherlock's reconnoitring mission. The night was a pure, squid-ink black, sprinkled with diamanté stars.

Sherlock's phone bleeped loudly as he followed John outside into the biting, frigid air. He paused only briefly on the threshold as he read the short message.

**You should have chosen me, darling…M x**


	16. Decampment

Sherlock licked his lips in the briefest display of anxiety. Glancing up and down the snow-packed street, he spoke quickly to John in a low, rumbling voice. The doctor had not enquired about the text he had just received.

"Is your phone on?"

"Um…yeah," John confirmed.

"Turn it off," Sherlock instructed as he switched his own mobile off. John frowned curiously but obeyed.

"John, do you trust me?" the detective asked, turning to look piercingly at him.

"Nope," John grinned playfully, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him warningly.

John sighed, "Yes, of course I do."

"Very well. Now you must follow me and do exactly as I do, and quickly. Understand?"

John nodded in mute acquiescence, suffering a small shiver at the frigid temperature, his fingers aching and his skin burning.

Sherlock surveyed the short street to his right, his breath curling out in smoky white tendrils, vibrant against the freezing black night. After about fifty metres, the glowing, soft lights from the cottages and the pub melted swiftly into hard, pitch-black darkness.

Hundreds of closely-packed evergreen trees could be seen, swarming the surrounding bleak countryside, as well as crowding up opposite the pub amongst the residential cottages. They loomed over the road, creating a sheltering arc. Their dense foliage had prevented any considerable amounts of snow from settling, and the forest went on for what looked like at least a square mile.

"We'll head down the road toward the wood," Sherlock pointed quickly. "Once we reach the border where there's little snowfall, we'll double back. Come," he muttered, before dashing down the road, his heavy coat billowing behind him.

John was briefly and randomly reminded of Jack Skellington flouncing his dark body and long lean legs in Christmasland. He took a deep breath and followed as speedily as he could, sinking deep into the crisp, wet snow.

They ran hard for a few minutes, crossing the road via a lengthy diagonal. They reached the blind darkness under the canopy of the stately trees, and Sherlock glanced back with sharp eyes to see that their footprints were suitably obvious. The doctor peered through the chilled darkness, seeing stars buzz at the edge of his vision.

Gripping John's hand to guide him, Sherlock led him back the way they had come, avoiding any and all snowdrifts, sticking to hard, frozen earth.

"See that house opposite the pub?" Sherlock murmured breathlessly. John barely had a chance to acknowledge the quaint little cottage whose windows glowed with golden light, when the detective suddenly dragged him through the maze of trees towards it at breakneck speed, skilfully avoiding trunks, roots and rocks. Not slowing down once he reached the wooden fence of the back garden, Sherlock promptly let go of John's hand and vaulted it effortlessly, dropping out of sight.

"…What the bloody hell are you doing Sherlock," John whispered resignedly to himself, as he followed with considerably less grace than the detective. Landing in ankle-deep snow, swearing under his breath at his now saturated jeans, he cautiously eyed the cottage in whose back garden they were now trespassing. The garden was sizeable and neat, with rose bushes and ornaments transformed into soft white, shapeless sculptures.

Sherlock was bounding noiselessly to a hefty, bare oak tree, in which nestled a large, elaborate treehouse. A zig-zagging ladder nailed to the tree's solid trunk led some fifteen feet up to a hatch in its floor. Sherlock spidered up this in seconds before vanishing inside the wooden structure.

Just about managing to quell his rising irritation, John followed, pulling himself up the wet, solid ladder and into the musty darkness of the treehouse. Sherlock sat on the right, facing the way they had just come, his coat tucked snugly around him. The detective shut the trap-door entrance once John was inside, and slid back a varnished board in the wall with a jarring squeak, revealing a large window. Sherlock frowned, judging his view, satisfied that he could see their trail leading away from the pub and down the road towards the immense black forest, although the pub itself was out of sight.

"So…this is our barracks, is it?" John asked sarcastically, shifting on the cold, hardwood floor and trying to ignore the complaining ache in his leg. Beneath him, long-dead leaves that littered the treehouse floor crumbled into dust with tragic whispers. Sherlock pulled out a small pair of binoculars from inside his coat.

"Sherlock, what in God's name are we doing up here? And how can you see anything with those?" he asked, as the detective focussed on the perimeter of the black, ice-cold woods where it seemed all kinds of prehistoric fears might lurk.

"Night-vision," Sherlock murmured in his steady baritone, setting down his binoculars and making himself a little more comfortable, his ebony curls just brushing the roof of the cold wooden kid's house in which they sat. "Now we wait for them. Hush now, John, we must be silent."

"Who? Sherlock, what's going on?" The doctor whispered in hoarse annoyance.

With a noise of exasperation, still gazing ahead, Sherlock leaned hastily towards John in the gloom, intending to kiss him on the mouth to quieten him, but missing and getting him in the eye.

"Ow! Bloody hell, Sherlock, you just kissed my eyeball-"

Sherlock's gloved left hand went quickly to John's mouth, stifling his loud complaints. The doctor smelt sweet, soft leather as the taller man peered intently out of the weather-worn window.

"John, listen to me - as much as I love you, I need you to shut up now. I'll explain later. Okay?"

Still not looking at his doctor, he removed his gloved hand and his brow crinkled in concentration, his lips parted earnestly as he once more fixated on their footprints in the blanketed snow with his binoculars.

John was too dumbstruck to speak even if he'd wanted to.

* * *

 

Sherlock warningly placed his gloved hand on John's.

The doctor peered out of the splintery window, stoically ignoring his own unadulterated shock at Sherlock's words - vaguely viewing a young man and an older woman striding into the woods, following his and Sherlock's footprints in the snow.

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered, as the couple disappeared into the darkness. He peered into his binoculars a little longer, before putting them down. "They're bound to be out there for at least half an hour. Once they're out of sight, we must head back to the pub, collect our belongings quickly, and then move on."

John nodded mutely.

"You know, this…might be an interesting place to make love," Sherlock grinned, glancing around.

"Behave, Sherlock," John managed, opening the trapdoor and preparing to descend the zig-zag ladder. He glanced up as the detective noticed a very small object in the corner of the structure, making an appreciative sound.

"A goldcrest, John. Smallest bird in the UK," he said thoughtfully, picking up the tiny, forlorn body of the stiff dead bird and putting it in his coat pocket. "It should keep until we can find a freezer."

He felt, rather than saw, his doctors' Look.

* * *

 

Once they had made their way back to the pub, John started to make his way upstairs. Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Don't leave my sight," the detective said warningly, before fondly squeezing his hand. He spoke to the older man at the bar who had given them the room, and had soon procured the keys to the car of the owners' wife.

Heading to their room with a sense of muted urgency, they collected their belongings and disembarked.

John followed Sherlock to an old green Land Rover in the car park. Sherlock swiped the settled snow from the windscreen with a faint grimace. The black, starry skies had once again begun to drop soft white flakes, and the doctor ruffled his ash-brown hair to disperse the freezing particles before dumping their bags in the back, and settling in the front passenger seat, his chest tight and face almost numb with cold. His wet jeans were heavy and icy against his legs.

Sherlock started the car easily, turning his head and peering at the snowy road as he reversed.

"I can't quite imagine you having a driving lesson. You must have been a nightmare for the instructor," John observed quietly, as they reached the road, Sherlock spinning the steering wheel expertly before heading in the direction that they had arrived from only that morning.

"I never took any lessons," Sherlock said quietly, hitting the windscreen wipers which squeaked intermittently. The powerful headlights illuminated a black, blind treacherous road.

"Not even one?"

"Nope."

"How many times have you ever driven?"

"This is my fifth time."

John wasn't particularly surprised.

"…You're doing very well. Please don't crash. And if you do, _please_ tell me you have a licence."

"Of sorts."

"Oh?"

"Well it's not _real_ , obviously." Sherlock pushed a button on the console for the CD player. In seconds, a recent pop song by a teenage boyband started.

The detective braked abruptly, his face dour. Ejecting the CD, he grasped it in his gloved hand, opened his window, and flung the offending disc into the night.

"Sherlock! That's not yours!" John exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, frowning deeply.

"I was doing her a favour," Sherlock rumbled in his deep voice, beginning to drive again. "And I know it's not mine. The only thing in this car that belongs to me is you."

The doctor laughed, helplessly touched. "…And your bag?"

"Mrs. Hudson's."

"Your clothes?"

"Stop being pedantic whilst I'm trying to compliment you."

"…Thankyou, Sherlock."


	17. Debriefing

"Just don't forget to get that bloody dead bird out of your coat pocket before you take it to the dry cleaners. You know how much trouble you got into after that frogspawn incident," John muttered, watching the bright headlights cut through the black, featureless rural night as the Land Rover bumped along. The air in the car was freezing, due to the feeble heating and the ill-fitting windows. John shivered violently, closing his eyes, folding his arms across his chest and stoically trying to ignore the bitter wet iciness of his chafing jeans against his legs.

"Do you even know where you're going, Sherlock?"

"I memorised the journey from the train station."

They travelled in silence for a minute, before Sherlock braked suddenly at a bleak, black, rural roadside, his pale eyes staring ahead at the softly drifting snow on the windscreen.

"John, I will explain everything. But first, I need something from you."

"…Oh?"

"A kiss. Please."

The doctor sighed, grinning, and leaned across to meet Sherlock's eager cupid's-bow lips, both men straining against their seat-belts. Sherlock sighed happily into the warm wet kiss, one hand scooting up John's thigh, the other rummaging through his doctors' short, ash-brown hair.

John grudgingly pulled away after a few seconds with a faint smack of lips. "Behave, Sherlock. Don't you _dare_ start getting randy," he informed the detective, though he couldn't help but snatch a look in the rear-view mirror to ascertain how much room there was on the back seat.

Sherlock grinned his crinkly grin, starting the car again. "I can wait." He sighed heavily, speeding up the windscreen wipers with a laboured squeak as the snow suddenly flooded down faster.

"Take a look."

Sherlock passed John his phone, displaying the message he had received from Moriarty a short while earlier.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock…"

"Quite." Sherlock took a deep breath, eyes on the road as he drove carefully through the freezing black night.

"It is clear from the level of brutality that the frenzied attack on the police officer was personal – a crime of passion, if you will. If we assume that this is Moriarty's own doing - which is probable, considering the text he sent me, then it is unusual, for he never usually 'gets his hands dirty.' He clearly was suffering a huge amount of rage which he decided to take out on the innocent officer. The initial attack was highly violent, but the hangman game carved into the back was made after the initial adrenaline rush – time and effort was taken to make the puzzle legible and clear. It is likely that Moriarty took out his frustration and anger by stabbing and mutilating the officer, and only some time later, he created his message on the body.

The fact that the postcard was present on the victim means that he knew my plans, and that he had contacts in this region - although I only informed two people of our trip – Mrs. Hudson, whom I told in person, and Mycroft, whom I texted. Therefore, either Mycroft's or my phone was hacked, or the flat's surveillance, that Mycroft so adorably thinks is secret, was intercepted. Moriarty, however, didn't text me himself until after we had made love. Clearly someone was aware of our presence – and our actions. We _both_ made enough noise to alert any spies,"

John groaned quietly and rubbed his forehead as Sherlock continued.

"I noted them, but should have _noticed_ them," Sherlock grimaced. "Odd couple – one young man, about twenty-five, most likely Scottish, and an older woman – Eastern European, late-forties – sitting at the same table, barely talking, checking their phones an inordinate number of times. Clearly waiting for instructions. I realised as we left the pub and I got the text that someone was bound to be following us, only then did I recall the pair – _foolish_ ," Sherlock spat, angry at himself. The detective took a deep breath, and then carried on. "Watching them from the treehouse, I saw that the female had a gun in her coat – but judging by the weight in her pocket, it was unloaded. Therefore, it was intended to coerce and threaten, rather than be used as a weapon. No intention to kill us, then. Both the woman and the man had hypodermic needles in their pockets – I could see them poking through the fabric of their clothes…Bound to be a substance with which to drug us, knock us out. Two goons with two needles mean that we were both meant to be drugged, left insensible. But only one of us was meant to be taken – or there would have been more people employed. I'm not yet sure who they meant to take. We escaped them for now, but we're not safe."

"…What now?" John asked, in a dazed state.

"We go to the Premier Inn by the train station," Sherlock said confidently. "The spies will assume that we've taken the car to drive non-stop back to London. They won't expect to find us here, just a few miles from our original camp. We will make love, rest, and head home in the morning."

* * *

 

"We want a double room," Sherlock demanded bluntly after striding up to the front desk in the bland hotel and narrowing his pale grey-green eyes at the young woman at the reception desk. The Land Rover had been left half a mile down the road, and they had walked the rest of the way.

The brunette girl, no older than twenty, hesitated for a few moments, glancing between John and Sherlock. She soon shrunk back as Sherlock loomed over her, glaring dangerously.

"Listen to me… _Lisa_ ," Sherlock spat, sneering at her name badge. "I want to make love to _him_ as soon as is humanly possible," Sherlock glared, stabbing a pointed finger in John's direction. "Either you can provide us with a room in which to do so, or I will do him right here in reception. It's your choice. Understand?" Behind Sherlock, John blushed beetroot red and groaned, covering his face, utterly mortified.

The young woman blushed ferociously. Tapping away at her computer for a few seconds, she took his details and credit card, then gave him the keycard to their room with a shaky hand.

"Thankyou," Sherlock said with a sarcastic smile, before scowling at her and flouncing away, his long black coat billowing behind him.

"I am…so… _so_ sorry," John muttered to her, his face burning with embarrassment, before trotting quickly after his detective.

"Your boyfriend's cheating on you!" Sherlock called loudly over his shoulder to the girl, before mounting the stairs and speeding up them with a grin and a swirl of coat.

* * *

 

"Sherlock, I cannot _believe_ you just-"

"John – Here – _Now_ ," Sherlock interrupted insistently, before slamming his doctor against the wall of the corridor outside their room, kissing him desperately.

" _Sher_ -" John managed, before the detective crushed him with another kiss, his hand going to John's jeans and popping them open, groping eagerly.

The doctor groaned and shoved Sherlock hard, the detective staggering back against the opposite wall, his eyes dark and wide, his lips parted excitedly.

"You _will_ wait until I'm ready, Sherlock," John instructed bluntly, opening the door to their room and depositing their bags in the corner. Sherlock licked his baby-pink lips as he entered the room, shutting the door behind him with trembling hands.

John made a bee-line to the bathroom, and Sherlock took the time to undress, dumping his coat, peeling off his shirt, jacket and trousers, kicking off expensive Italian shoes, stripping every ounce of fabric from himself. He discovered the room's main light had a dimmer switch and he lowered it to a delightful warm gloom.

Naked, he settled on the crisp bed with a vast, satisfied sigh after placing one of the lube bottles on the bedside table. With a faint grin, he chucked off the deep-purple bedcovers and spread the cool white sheet over his bottom half, stretching wantonly, closing his eyes languidly.

A little while later, John emerged from the bathroom, minus his jeans, and he stopped in his tracks as he stared at Sherlock's sheet-clad figure on the bed.

"Fuck _me_ ," he exclaimed quietly to himself, licking his lips.

"Gladly," Sherlock replied in his baritone rumble, opening his pale grey-green eyes and smirking at his doctor.

John removed his shirt and mounted the bed, crawling over the detective and kissing him gently. He pulled away the sheet and stared at the long, lean expanse of marble-white body in the low light. Sherlock's pale hands quickly rose to cup his face after he had helped John out of his underwear, and he pulled him down urgently, nibbling and sucking at John's thin lips voraciously, with something akin to craving. Sherlock's muted trembling and tiny breathy noises proved to the doctor how quickly he was losing control, as did the gentle but insistent rocking of his hips against John's, his solid, wet hard-on abundantly obvious.

"What do you want, Sherlock," John asked quietly, moving down to nip at the flawless porcelain skin of the brunette's neck.

"…There's plenty of time for experimenting John…but right now…I _really_ need to just make love to you," he admitted with a groan, fingers spidering over John's shoulders, tickling the sensitive, soft scarring on the left one.

John didn't spend long on foreplay – a few deep, wet kisses, an urgent fist working up and down the brunette's shaft, eliciting soft, desperate sighs. Wincing in agonising pleasure, Sherlock rolled them, quickly slicking up his long fingers and preparing his doctor as speedily as he could. Remembering what he had been taught the first time, he roughly crooked two fingers inside John, the doctor sobbing shakily.

" _Sherlock_ … _God_ …" John groaned almost incomprehensibly, and the detective's eyes flared bright green with eager excitement. Sherlock bit his lip, tempted to drive John to absolute breaking point before penetrating him, but he was too far gone himself, and was practically salivating with want. Swallowing hard, he removed his long fingers, then hoisted up the doctor's heavy hips, pushing slowly but firmly inside him. The smaller man below him twitched faintly at the intrusion, his dark blue eyes hazy in the hot gloom. Needing an anchor, John pulled Sherlock's lean, white body down to him, meeting his lips with urgency. The detective loved the fact that when he was inside John like this, their faces were exactly aligned, and they could kiss easily.

Tongues swiping gracelessly, Sherlock started to rock, the bed letting out low squeals under his slow, hard movements. John abandoned the cupid's-bow lips for air, sighing gluttonously as he looked forward to a luxuriously unhurried session. One arm hooked around the detective's straining, damp back, the other pulling encouragingly on his soft ebony locks, his closed his eyes blissfully, listening to Sherlock's wheezy exhales and strangled gasps with each tortuously slow thrust.

"…God… _damn_ it!" John suddenly heard after thirty seconds, Sherlock's deep voice unnaturally panicked, his breath searing hotly against his cheek. " _Fuck_!"

The doctor tried not to show his disappointment as Sherlock came prematurely with a vast shudder, sobbing frustratedly into John's chest. Pulling out roughly, the detective slammed a fist into the mattress in a rage, his sharp cheekbones stained red. He ran a damp hand through his messy dark curls, sitting on the edge of the bed, clearly in a black mood. John had never known Sherlock to swear like that.

Choosing his words carefully, John cleared his throat and licked his lips.

"…I want you to send me over the edge, Sherlock," he murmured. "I'm so close."

Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, tried to calm himself. After a minute, he turned back to John but couldn't look him in the eye, his angular face burning with blushes. He buried his face in John's neck, biting the skin repeatedly. The doctor could feel the tremors of adrenaline and humiliation in the younger man's muscles and breathing pattern.

The detective's baritone voice rumbled bravely in his ear after he had pulled himself together. "I could…go down for you."

Before John could question this odd suggestion, Sherlock paused, double-checking his hard drive and correcting himself. " _On_ you. Down _on_ you."

"Please," the smaller man murmured, as Sherlock promptly moved down his body and took him between baby-pink lips for the first time, sucking hard – a little too hard, and using too many teeth, but John knew he was embarrassed and trying to redeem himself, so he planted hands into the glorious dark corkscrews on his head (which were absolutely _made_ for blowjobs) and gripped tightly.

After a few minutes, John encouraged Sherlock's right hand onto his shaft, showing him how to squeeze the base and tug in time with his mouth.

"… _Sherlock_ …I'm nearly there…" he struggled after another five minutes, fingers tightening in the detective's thick, soft hair. "…I'm coming," he gasped warningly, shuddering, before a raw yell ripped from his throat and he spurted hard into the brunette's mouth, struggling heroically not to thrust, his lack of movement only making the exquisite agony of his climax even more unbearable. He writhed and let out strangled, animalistic noises in between breathless incantations of Sherlock's name.

Sherlock stoically swallowed, his expression almost unreadable as he sat up and went to lay beside a sweating and exhausted-looking John, his own gaze unfocussed and distant.

" _God_ , Sherlock, that was good," John wheezed, wiping sweat from his hairline and face.

"…I think it was unsatisfactory for you. I apologise, John," Sherlock replied flatly.

He doctor couldn't help but huff out a fond laugh. "You really can be a twit sometimes," he said, kissing the pensive detective on the cheek affectionately.

Sherlock frowned at him in confusion.

"I don't know about you, but I haven't been awake long and I'm certainly not thinking about sleeping in the next few hours. If you're willing…I'd like to get some more practise in. It's been five years since I slept with another man," he confessed. "And if you don't mind me saying, you're a very fast learner," he grinned. "So don't sulk. Besides which, I have an idea I want to try. So be a good boy and fetch that bag of tricks over here."

The detective abruptly brightened, going to retrieve his carrier bags of bedroom goodies and returning with a smirk on his face.

 


	18. Foreplay

The doctor watched Sherlock's long, lean, white body in the warm gloom, swallowing back a sigh of appreciation at the flawless figure.

"Get over here and sit that pretty arse down, Sherlock," John instructed, settling back against the pillows contentedly and patting the bed beside him.

The detective obeyed with alacrity, green-grey eyes bright. He handed the carrier bag eagerly to his doctor, who set it aside for the moment. His gaze flicked quickly down John's naked body, very much liking what he saw.

"C'm here," John insisted, arms open. Sherlock happily settled into the embrace, holding the smaller man tight and closing his eyes, nuzzling against the muscular chest and sighing languorously. John grinned in amusement.

"You know, I never had you down as someone who liked snuggling, Sherlock."

The brunette scowled briefly at the use of the word 'snuggling,' but replied evenly. "Neither did I." He cuddled harder against John's body, his warm, soft curls tickling the doctor's collarbone.

"Don't you go to sleep on me. I have plans for you," John warned, one hand rummaging enjoyably through Sherlock's dark curls, the other sifting through the bag's contents. He received a small affirmative grunt in reply, the detective's fingers curiously circling and pinching one of the doctor's nipples, even as he rested on John, his eyes closed lightly.

"…I wish to converse with you," Sherlock rumbled deeply.

"…You mean, 'Let's have a chat?'"

"…Let's have a chat."

"What's on your mind, Sherlock?"

" _Everything_ , John. _Everything_."

"Except the solar system."

Sherlock sighed and prodded John's chest irritably. "Hush. Don't be flippant."

"You know what I don't understand?"

"Where should I start?"

John's Look was lost on the sarcastic detective as he burrowed deeper into the side of his body.

"You don't have the solar system on your hard drive, but you have the words to an obscure kid's rhyme."

"Hm?" Sherlock murmured, confused.

"'Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear.'"

The detective's curly head rose sharply, and he frowned at John for a few seconds.

"Must have been a glitch," they muttered simultaneously, before their eyes met, and they broke out in gusty giggles. With a satisfied grin and a sigh, Sherlock kissed John's cheek chastely before speaking again in his rumbling baritone.

"What is your definition of love, John?"

The doctor tensed slightly, irrationally wary of the subject. "I…don't know…what's yours?"

"I suspect it entails caring for another person more than one cares for oneself."

"…Sounds about right," John shrugged distractedly, licking his lips and focussing his attention on the contents of the bag which he had just upended onto the bed.

Sherlock listened to John's newly erratic heartbeat and increased breathing rate, and with a small sigh, he said no more on the matter.

He managed to ignore his own thoughts for a few minutes, and lazily kissed his doctor's chest for a while, his baby-pink lips making delightful, soft wet sounds in the close gloom.

"…One moment," Sherlock announced, before getting up on and going to his coat, gently retrieving the tiny bird from his pocket and placing it in the mini-bar in an effort to preserve it a while longer. He hesitated a moment after viewing the various miniatures and beers in the fridge.

"Drink?" Sherlock asked with a cheerful smile, glancing back at his doctor.

"If you're having one," John replied distractedly.

The detective stood determinedly, before going to the phone on the bedside table.

" _Obscene_ ," Sherlock muttered under his breath, as he pressed the button for the front desk.

"Sherlock?"

"Look at it…a lilac phone…it's beyond all realms of decency…Oh, yes," he spoke engagingly into the receiver. "We'd like some champagne please, two bottles…Mm, that's right…Thankyou."

"…You want to get me tipsy?" John asked, as Sherlock put down the offending phone.

"Yes, John."

"..Fair enough," the doctor grinned. "Want me to show you what we've got here?" he asked, gesturing at the liquids, toys and packages that had been extracted from Sherlock's bag of tricks.

"One moment," Sherlock murmured, yanking the warm white sheet from the bed and wrapping it around his waist.

"You've successfully removed both the sheet and the duvet from the bed, Sherlock – don't complain to me when you're too uncomfortable to sleep tonight," John teased through the hot, pleasant gloom.

"I'll be comfortable as long as I have you," Sherlock muttered honestly. He stood very still for a minute, waiting by the door.

John grinned his clown-like grin on the bed before asking a question that was only half-playful.

"What part of your hard-drive do I occupy?"

The dark-haired detective spared John a quick glance, his eyes intense, his lips parted.

"You occupy every part. I cannot decide whether you are a virus or a firewall."

John gasped out a brief laugh, his face beaming. "…If I'm right, and that was a compliment, then that was one of the loveliest things anyone's ever said to me."

Sherlock grunted a distracted reply, though his grey-green eyes were undeniably fond and warm.

As the rap on the door sounded, the tall detective nodded to his doctor, who, naked, scurried away to the bathroom and shut himself in.

A man in his late-twenties met Sherlock as the door was flung open, and the young man's hazel eyes flicked over the flawless, pale body presented to him. Sherlock felt proud. This was not unusual, as he would be the first to admit that he was supremely arrogant, but for the first time, he was proud that he belonged to somebody, and was available to nobody else. He felt almost benevolent as he allowed the young man to place the ice bucket and the extra bottle of Champagne on the table beside the door.

Sherlock tried to resist, but couldn't, as he saw the younger man's eyes meet his.

"Your first time won't be as frightening as you suspect it will be. Talk to him."

Sherlock had no idea why he said this. Gnawing his full bottom lip, he nodded his goodbye to the younger man and shut the door forcefully, leaving the young man speechless outside in the corridor.

"…John, come out," the detective instructed in his deep baritone, dropping his sheet onto the deep-purple carpet. He uncorked the Champagne and filled two glasses as John emerged. He grinned knowingly in his doctor's direction.

"Ta, Sherlock," John smiled clownishly, taking a sip of the bubbly Champagne. "Mm, not bad."

"Inferior, but I wouldn't expect anything else from-"

"Don't ruin it, Sherlock," the smaller man grinned, pressing a finger against his detective's complaining, cupid's-bow mouth. He replaced the sheet and duvet on the bed before settling onto it.

Sherlock drank contentedly, before relaxing on the bed beside John.

"So, _Doctor_ , found anything interesting?"

The solider cleared his throat and licked his lips, before asking, "Do you trust me?"

"Nope," Sherlock grinned widely, his face crinkling adorably.

John gave him a Look, then kissed him soundly on the mouth, eliciting a happy moan.

"Let's please make love," Sherlock asked, as casually as he could.

John shifted in the hot, cosy gloom, and stroked Sherlock's thick, dark hair affectionately, before murmuring in his ear, "Would you let me inside you?"

Sherlock groaned in anticipation, nodding, his ebony curls bouncing delightfully.

"…You sure?" John asked, mounting Sherlock's long, white body, and smooching him soundly. The detective groaned pleasurably, encouraging John's lips against his pale throat with long fingers.

His doctor responded intuitively, nibbling and biting at the flawless skin, before shifting down and sucking at Sherlock's highly-sensitive nipples.

Before Sherlock had a chance to warn him away, John pulled back, grinning smugly.

"I am going to blow your mind," John susurrated.

"…Not all of it, please, I might need it," Sherlock managed, gasping, staring at his doctor, who was straddling his waist, dark-blue eyes betraying the fact that the good soldier was trying very hard not to just ravage him on the spot. John shifted off of the detective, licking his lips.

"Grab me that Champagne. Now."

 


	19. Deflowered

Sherlock obediently went to grab the ice bucket with the open champagne inside, placing it on the bedside table, and settled eagerly back on the bed, watching as John went to the bathroom and came back with a large towel. "Trust me Sherlock. We're going to need this." The detective blushed slightly, grinning, as John adjusted the towel under the lean brunette.

John retrieved Sherlock's beloved blue scarf and twirled it thoughtfully through his fingers.

"Can you promise not to touch yourself, Sherlock?"

The detective nodded confidently, pale eyes bright and excited in the warm, heady gloom.

"Good. Because if you don't behave, I'll use this on you," he informed the brunette calmly, signalling with the navy blue scarf. He abruptly pushed Sherlock down, taking his pale, slim wrists in his hands and forcing them gently but firmly above his head, bumping against the thin wooden slats of the headboard. Sherlock's slender fingers twitched and John bit back a smug grin at the frantic, hot pulse of blood in those elegant wrists.

The doctor dusted his damp mouth teasingly over the flawless white skin of Sherlock's jaw, tiny half-kisses, then grazing slightly with his teeth. The detective sighed luxuriously, nuzzling against John, before his hands were released, and his doctor's right hand disappeared between them. His grey-green eyes opened in sharp surprise as he felt something cool and rubbery slide down over his slick shaft to settle at the base.

"This should keep you in check, Sherlock," John smirked. He sat back, allowing the detective to glance down at the tight, flexible rubber of the red ring that squeezed with pleasant pressure around him. Sherlock mewed out a questioning noise, raising his eyebrows at John, who grinned. The doctor merely moved his fingers to the toy and flicked a tiny switch, creating an instant, buzzing vibration. Sherlock groaned raggedly and he writhed reflexively, before John flicked the toy off again.

"Patience," the doctor grinned, his blue eyes now the dark indigo of an ocean abyss. He couldn't help licking his lips.

" _God John_ ," Sherlock moaned, rolling his eyes, not in annoyance, but in pure, dizzy disbelief at finding himself in this remarkable situation, which put all his previous private fantasies to shame. John leaned to the ice bucket and pulled out a freezing, slippery ice cube, holding it up for Sherlock to see. He knelt alongside the painfully aroused detective on the wide bed, and Sherlock went to grasp at John's knee, needing something to occupy the hand which had been forbidden access to his own body. His other hand fisted in the duvet, his knuckles cracking softly in the close gloom.

John slowly ran the rapidly melting ice cube over Sherlock's flat stomach, which twitched delightfully. Holding the cube over his belly button, John let it drip into it, before going down and lapping away the cool water eagerly, playfully tonguing him. Sherlock let out a tight, high-pitched sigh, like the one he did when he went overboard on his nicotine patches.

John couldn't resist moving down and licking roughly across Sherlock's wet, hard tip a few times. Pulling back, biting his bottom lip in thrall at the brunette's dreamy, cloudy-eyed expression, he reached for the icy Champagne bottle and tilted the bottle slightly above Sherlock's baby-pink lips.

"Open up," he murmured intently.

Sherlock parted his cupid's-bow lips and the doctor gently splashed a little into his mouth, his tongue pressed against his front teeth in concentration. Sherlock swallowed, his pale throat bobbing, before licking his lips. John tilted the bottle again, taking a long swig himself, then letting a small splash of the cold Champagne onto Sherlock's smooth, flawless chest. With a feral grin, he leant down and sucked and licked away the sweet liquid, taking the chance to bite sharply at the detective's right nipple, eliciting a sudden gasp.

"John…kiss me," Sherlock seethed out, his long hands grabbing his biceps and trying to pull him closer. John crawled up to the angular, pale face, and as the detective lifted his mouth desperately to catch his doctor's, John mischievously avoided it, pressing whisper-soft, very brief kisses on his sculptured cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his chin.

"John _please_ ," came the strained mumble, and John finally consented, kissing him deeply, ingesting a rumbling, baritone moan. Sherlock was rapturous in the embrace as he wrapped strong arms around John's damp, warm back, kissing him as hard as he could. When the doctor realised that Sherlock was rutting against him in an attempt to get off, he pulled back and gave Sherlock a reprimanding Look.

"Not yet, Sherl. Are you ready?"

"Mm!" came the impatient response, Sherlock eager enough not to take affront at the nickname he had just been addressed with.

"Spread 'em."

Sherlock huffed out a quick laugh and obeyed, biting his lip as John lubed up the fingers of his left hand. Restraining Sherlock gently by weighing his right hand on his pale hip, he slowly inserted his index finger, curling it very slightly inside the virgin-tight detective.

" _…S'good_ ," Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head back on the pillow, his glossy dark curls flattening.

"Yeah? You like that?" John asked, breathing heavily, staring at Sherlock's beautiful face.

A long, satisfied sigh heaved out into the dark, warm air of their room, ending with a small, breathy cry as John crooked his finger hard, slamming into Sherlock's prostate.

" _Christ_... _More, please_ ," the detective managed, his white skin glistening like wet marble.

John added another finger with some effort, Sherlock's body squeezing around him, clamping down almost painfully. He continued prodding slowly against his prostate with firm, steady thrusts.

His forehead creasing, Sherlock's hands began to blunder against the bed, his fingertips damp, his throat dry. John took himself in hand, pulling at himself firmly, not taking his eyes from his detective.

Sherlock inhaled shakily, ribs flashing quickly under pale skin as his chest swelled. "… _Another one_."

John added a third finger in one smooth movement, forcing his digits into the unbelievably tight, blood-hot body, his bicep straining as he thudded against Sherlock's prostate hard and slow. He was himself close, and he kept himself right on the precipice, trembling with the effort of postponing his own orgasm.

" _John, I need to come_ ," Sherlock suddenly hissed, eyes crinkled tight shut as his body jerked slightly with John's insistent, skilled movements. The doctor grinned with a fluttery thrill, forcing his fingers even harder inside the brunette, whose face was now gleaming with a thin patina of warm sweat, his upper lip and nose wet, as was his hairline, his dark curls wilting.

" _Uh…John…I'm_ …" Sherlock moaned in anguish, hips starting to buck against thin air, his baby-pink lips falling open as he began to shiver.

Suddenly, John pulled out from him and clapped his hands loudly in front of Sherlock's face, startling the detective.

"Sherlock! What's the chemical formula for mustard gas?" the doctor demanded authoritatively.

The brunette, wet with sweat and panting hard, stared at him, baffled.

"Answer me Sherlock, quickly!" John commanded shortly, frowning.

"C4H8Cl2S," the detective replied speedily, his pale eyes wide, his expression sweetly confused.

"…Good boy," John grinned.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his doctor, breathing hard, before realisation dawned. John was distracting him to stall his threatening climax. Smirking, he felt a violent thrill of affection towards him.

"John, you are perfect," he rumbled in his impossibly deep voice. The doctor started working Sherlock once more, firmly and quickly. As the slim brunette started to shudder, head falling back onto the pillow with a crush of soft dark curls, he pulled out once more.

"Name the halogens," he ordered, breathless and literally throbbing with arousal.

"Oh, _John_ ," Sherlock sighed helplessly, with a gluttonous grin and blissful expression. Forgetting his promise, he absent-mindedly trailed his right hand down to take hold of himself, pumping energetically. He hissed as John slapped his hand away roughly, seizing the thick blue scarf, and without further ado, pulling his arms up, and deftly tying Sherlock's pale wrists above him to the wooden slats of the headboard.

Sherlock let out a strangled noise of rebellion, though his angular face had such an expression of predatory delight that John had never seen.

"Name them," John murmured darkly, before finally slicking himself up and lifting Sherlock's surprisingly heavy hips.

"Fl…Fluorine," Sherlock began, as John pushed inside him with a ragged, voracious groan.

"Go on," John panted, rocking his hips into the squirming detective, the wooden headboard creaking as Sherlock yanked at his soft manacles desperately, sobbing as John thudded against his prostate hard, picking up his speed, the bed whining and bumping with the violent movements.

"…Chl…" Sherlock's face looked truly pained, his eyes screwed shut, his hands clenched into fists bone-white with pressure.

John swallowed hard, feeling his own climax surging quickly. He flicked the little switch on the cock ring, and the buzzing was immediately drowned out by Sherlock's raw yell of agony. Staring open-mouthed and wide eyed, holding onto Sherlock's heavy, wet bucking hips like he was riding a mechanical bull, he pulled off the ring and flung it away, releasing the pressure on Sherlock's tortured, dark shaft.

John held on for dear life, forcing himself as deep as he could inside the detective as he came, choking out a torn groan as Sherlock bucked and spasmed and screeched, a sharp splintering sound coming from the thin wooden bar of the headboard. The detective finally orgasmed, his face red, veins and tendons sticking out and pulsing visibly on his neck, his voice robbed for a few seconds before he grated out a tormented wail, sobbing as the brutal shocks punched through him repeatedly. He writhed through wave after wave, until after twenty seconds, they relented, and the mind-blowing pulses slowed and weakened.

John hung his head, sweat dripping from his hair that was now the colour of wet sand, and onto Sherlock's quivering stomach. He heaved for breath, totally exhausted, and pulled out from the trembling detective, who had ejaculated so powerfully that his own throat, chin and bottom lip were coated. It was a full minute before Sherlock stopped grinding away his aftershocks, the half-cracked headboard slat cutting his wrist without him noticing. He slumped like dead weight, eyes closed, mouth open slightly, his hair soaking wet and hanging in ebony tendrils.

Sherlock took in a hitched breath, managed a crinkly grin and spoke a few words in a cracked, painfully dry deep voice.

"….Chlorine, Bromine, Iodine, Astatine."


	20. Denouement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of Fraud - comments and reviews on this story are much appreciated and really make my day :P =^_^=  
> Thanks for all the views and kudos so far.  
> I'm writing a sequel at the moment that will be far more angsty and dark ;)  
> Emma  
> x

"I like sex."

Sherlock announced this, as John giggled, untying his slim wrists and tossing the blue scarf away. Sherlock sat up with a groan, licking his own cooled seed from his bottom lip absent-mindedly, his expression calm, his face flushed.

"I'm glad," John answered, before going to the bathroom to dampen a flannel, then cleaning Sherlock off with doctor-like efficiency, dabbing at his long neck and almost-translucent chest. In the dim, low light, the brunette's heady sighs were intoxicating, as was the damp patina of sweat highlighting the tip of his nose and his brutally sharp cheekbones.

"…You promised you wouldn't touch yourself."

"Promises are like pie-crusts, John – made to be broken."

"…You're coming out with bollocks, and you're not even drunk yet," the doctor grinned, offering the languid detective another bubbly glass of Champagne. Sherlock sighed massively, contentedly, peering at his left wrist, where a long, shallow, bleeding scratch had been inflicted by the narrow slat on the headboard of the bed, where he had splintered the wood in a spasm of ecstasy. He dabbed a fingertip through the smudged blood, then sucked it for a few thoughtful seconds.

He accepted the fluted glass and drank gratefully. John, too, settled himself beside Sherlock on the bed and appreciatively took a few swallows from his own glass, licking his lips.

"…You broke the bed, Sherlock," John said with a straight face, though his dark blue eyes were teasing.

"The bed is totally functional. It merely has a small…discrepancy." Sherlock pulled up one of the pillows, shoved it against the broken wooden headboard, and fluffed it in place, hiding the splintered bar.

"There. No-one will ever know. At least, not until long after we have vacated the premises."

John grinned his clown-like grin. "Do you wish you'd embarked on all of this earlier? Sex, I mean."

"It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't have been around."

John smiled warmly and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. "…You smell like a drunk," he murmured, fingers running over the sticky, sweet-smelling remnants of Champagne on Sherlock's chest.

"Well _you_ would know. When _is_ the last time you saw Harry?"

John's face fell into an instant visage of pain.

"…Not good?" The detective looked genuinely wary and apologetic.

"A lot not good, Sherlock."

"…Sorry," Sherlock murmured, scratching his own dark, wilting curls self-consciously.

The doctor's dark blue eyes roamed around the snug gloom of the hotel room as he gathered his resolve, licking his lips again. "…It's okay. I can see I'm going to have to educate you further. It's just a shame that being indescribably tactless suits you so well." He stroked his fingers thoughtfully through Sherlock's damp, warm hair.

"Mm," Sherlock rumbled appreciatively, downing his Champagne, abandoning the empty glass somewhere on the duvet and rolling to straddle John's bare lap, biting his full bottom lip eagerly. "Again. Please."

Not bothering to argue or to even appear shocked or indignant, John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and slammed him down into the bed, taking him in hand and tugging at him as hard and fast as he could, biting down mercilessly on his left nipple.

Sherlock gulped out a wordless noise of shock, his grey-green eyes wide, before his doctor coaxed out a dormant, devastating orgasm in a matter of seconds. With a strangled cry, the detective shuddered sharply, pale pink lips open, eyes closed tightly. He writhed out the painful aftershocks, hazily observing the barely-hidden mischief in John's eyes. The doctor shrugged innocently.

"What? You asked for it." Without further ado, John took him in hand once again, and in two minutes, had ripped another violent, dry, noisy orgasm from the detective.

Over the next hour, Sherlock climaxed twenty-two times.

* * *

 

After he absolutely couldn't take any more, Sherlock batted John away with a weak, wet hand, barely able to open his eyes. He promptly grabbed the now-lukewarm Champagne bottle, half-full, and proceeded to down the remaining bubbly alcohol in one long series of swallows, his flushed, damp throat bobbing delightfully. His skin was glowing pink, a slick sheen of sweat on every inch of his sylph-like body, and intermittently, tremors and twitches could be visibly seen in the brutalised muscles of his arms, stomach, calves and thighs. His saturated dark hair looked like he had just stepped out from the shower.

John grinned, cracking the over-worked knuckles and joints of his left hand. Sherlock winced at the sound, but said nothing. Chucking the empty bottle in the bin beside the bed, he heaved in a huge breath, and then let it out in a ridiculously long, moaning sigh. John propped up the pillows behind him and sat back comfortably against the headboard, feeling wonderfully languid in the hot, sex-scented lambent light. There was no need to clean Sherlock up, as his climaxes had been dry almost from the start of the marathon.

"…Alright, Sherl?"

"… _Mmmmmm_." The noise came as an insanely deep, almost subsonic rumble. Sherlock made no move to relieve the doctor, who had been very hard for some considerable time, but John put this down to exhaustion rather than indifference. The detective, his head swimming and pale eyes slightly unfocussed, rolled heavily against John and hugged him with slippery arms, nuzzling into his chest with a sigh. The doctor grinned warmly and stroked his soaking-wet curls, feeling the damp heat rising from him, and his heart hammering from adrenaline. He adjusted the weighty brunette so that he could reach to pop open the second bottle of Champagne, and proceeded to chug a few long mouthfuls of it, starting to feel as tipsy as Sherlock looked.

"Are you quite satisfied? For ten minutes at least?" John needled fondly.

" _Seven_ minutes should be ample time to…reboot."

John peered down at Sherlock's face and saw a playful grin crinkling the flushed features.

"I'm glad you're joking. My wrist will thank you."

"…I bet it's not the first time you've worked it so hard," Sherlock laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated against John's chest.

"It's the first time I've tossed off another bloke about a hundred times in a row."

"Twenty-four, John."

"Still focussed enough to keep count, were you?" John sounded a little miffed.

"Well, now we have a figure which we can aim to surpass next time. A challenge, if you will."

"Well you can bloody well wait until your birthday Sherlock, that was a special treat, don't expect it all the time."

Sherlock let out a grumpy, petulant noise, and they both huffed into breathless giggles. The detective finally pulled himself to sit up against the propped pillows, wincing and sighing under his breath at the insistent aches in his tired muscles. He took the Champagne bottle from his doctor and chugged a couple of long swallows.

"Oi, leave some for me Sherl."

"We can always order more," the brunette winked at him, proceeding to down nearly the rest of the bottle, finally pulling back from it with a giggly gasp.

"Christ," was about all that the slightly concerned but mostly amused doctor could manage. With a shaky hand, Sherlock passed him the bottle one more time and watched him finish it off in a matter of seconds.

"Getting too old for this kind of thing," John laughed, head feeling nicely buzzing and warm.

"Never," Sherlock replied in a sultry baritone, affectionately kissing him on the mouth, coaxing it open, and letting their tongues mate slowly and sweetly, without the panic of lust.

This continued for a few minutes, before John pulled back. "You know what we could shorten your name to? 'Sock,' he giggled.

Sherlock's laser-like gaze, muted now from all the alcohol, focussed on him as he narrowed his eyes. "If you ever call me Sock, I will strangle you, exsanguinate you, dismember you, incinerate all the bits and chuck the ashes in the Thames." He had a bit of trouble pronouncing the word 'exsanguinate.'

"That sounded…awfully rehearsed," John chuckled, and Sherlock just grinned fiendishly.

"By the way, John…how do you know the formula for mustard gas?"

"I don't, but I figured you would." The doctor continued to fiddle with Sherlock's glossy wet curls in slow, gentle, tugging motions.

The detective smirked, and snuggled up next to him, one hard, damp cheekbone resting on John's shoulder. He hadn't missed the delectable state that John was in, his hazy eyes flicking down to his shaft, but for now he kept talking.

"How many…men have you made love to John," came the lazy query.

"Ten…ish. Only two were…you know, proper relationships. The rest, well…"

Sherlock checked his slightly slow hard-drive. "One night-stands?"

"Indeed. Okay, I've got one for you. Who else have you been attracted to? People I might know, I mean."

One name and face sprang into Sherlock's mind, but he prudently shooed it away again.

After a few seconds of silence, John offered suggestions.

"Molly?"

"Ugh, no."

"…Mrs. Hudson?" John grinned playfully.

"Oh _yes_ …she's a fox," Sherlock said, straight-faced. There were a moment of tenseness, then both burst out into sweet laughter.

"…You know what you said to me earlier?" John asked, once they had calmed down. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small sober voice asked him what the hell he was doing – he had been hoping Sherlock wouldn't bring this up, and now he himself was beginning this particular conversation. The larger, drunk part of his mind said, 'hey, whatever, what could go wrong? It's all good.'

Sherlock's reply came in a speedy tumble of slightly slurred words. "Was it _Oh God John Harder Faster Oh Fuck Yes I'm Coming John_!" The last word was a loud, melodramatic wail of pleasure. The doctor chuckled loudly. "Before that. In the treehouse."

Sherlock looked up at him, shrugging, an adorably idiotic look on his face. Clearly his memory cells were marinating in a sweet Champagne slumber. His hand went to start firmly stroking John, his calloused thumb working wonders around the slick head, his long white fingers and bony, blue-veined wrist hypnotising.

John sighed raggedly. "Never mind," he managed. Sherlock adjusted himself, kissing John's cheek with endless chaste pecks, whilst his strong hand pulled and twisted him relentlessly. The contrast was mind-blowing. In a minute, the doctor was writhing, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. The detective quickly took him in his mouth and swallowed his climax, allowing John to thrust into him, the long overdue orgasm wrecking him totally, his hoarse yell of ecstasy inordinately loud in the close, warm, quiet gloom.

He came down quickly, panting. "…Sherlock…you don't…have to do that if you don't like it," he offered.

"Who says I don't like it?" The detective replied somewhat indignantly, snuggling under the covers and pulling them over John and himself. "Besides, I couldn't be bothered to go find something to clean you up with. Now come here and cuddle me."

John obeyed, arms around the taller man, their foreheads touching. Sherlock let out a gusty sigh, grinning happily.

They continued to chat for nearly two hours, before John slipped into a snooze. Sherlock, heavy-eyed and tired, spoke to him in a near-subsonic murmur.

"John? Can you hear me?"

There was a small noise of assent, and dark-blue eyes opened drowsily. Without further ado, Sherlock pressed one cool fingertip to John's chest, and began tapping a short message in Morse Code. When he had finished, John's eyes widened, but Sherlock merely smirked, rolled over, and pulled the covers over his head. It was a few minutes before John fell back into a light sleep.

* * *

 

"Make me a cup of tea. And pass me my phone," Sherlock demanded bluntly, though his grey-green eyes were revealingly fond. Checking his watch, he noted that it was gone midnight, the dark room cosy and warm, the air tasting of sweat and Champagne. He still felt tipsy, but his head had started a thump a bit. They had dozed lightly for forty-five minutes or so.

The doctor turned to Look at him, face stern, arms crossed.

"What's the magic word, Sherlock?"

The brunette rolled his eyes in a mockery of thought, then narrowed his laser-like gaze, grinning his crinkly half-grin.

" _Now_."

A few heated seconds of shared, playfully-vitriolic stares, then John sighed and stood up, going to the tray on the table by the door.

"Two sugars?"

"Six."

"…Six?"

"Six."

John shook his head in a small, indulgent moment of disbelief, then proceeded to make two cups of tea, one of which was so full of sucrose that it barely dissolved in the hot liquid.

Whilst the water was boiling, John handed Sherlock his phone. Turning it on once again, the detective peered at the single message he had received in the time that it was switched off.

**Everyone has their pressure point. Someone that they want to protect from harm…See you soon darling! Xxx <3 – M**

Sherlock chewed on his full bottom lip, eyes distant as he contemplated the very clear message.

"Hell hath no fury like a consulting criminal scorned," he murmured to himself.

"Hm?" John enquired distractedly, stirring the tea.

"…Respect existence or expect resistance," came the intense mumble.

"…What the hell are you on about, Sherl?"

The detective briefly cast a sharp, peeved look at his doctor, at the apparently now-regular botch of his name. He let it slide for now.

"John, come to bed."

The doctor obeyed, passing Sherlock his incredibly sweet tea, and settling beside him, sipping tentatively at his. His dark blue eyes radiated anxiety as he saw Sherlock's expression.

"…What did he say?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "I fear that we are, I believe the phrase is, 'in deep shit'."

 

* * *

 


End file.
